Lies, More Lies, and Assassins
by dutchrub
Summary: Nikita returns to a place from years ago where a mission went wrong in the right kind of ways. Now she's back to hit Percy where it hurts and resolve the Pandora's box opened here six years before. But Michael will never make anything easy for her.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ** Modified the title on the main screen just to be a little nicer to general audiences. Just started watching _Nikita_ a week ago, and I instantly became obsessed. After finding myself endlessly quoting it for the past few days, I figured I'd get the obsession out of my system a bit by doing some writing. Trying to kill some time until April 7th—Percy would be proud. Hope you enjoy!

**Lies, Damn Lies, And Assassins**

**2005 - Division**

"Everything is go for Operation Harbinger," Birkhoff said with an overly-dramatic tap of one last key on the board.

Percy nodded. "No screw ups this time." He didn't look at anyone in particular because it was directed at someone other than the other two people who were currently in Operations. Still, the ever-paranoid Birkhoff looked warily over his shoulder at his boss.

Amanda, on the other hand, shifted her weight to her other leg with her characteristically crossed arms. "I realize I am being over-ruled here, but I must reiterate for the record that I don't agree with the plan of attack being employed on this mission."

"As always, I value you're input, Amanda," Percy said, walking to the door, "even if I don't always use it." He stopped in the exit and without looking back added, "Oh, and for the record, there is no record."

**2011 – Banff, Alberta, Canada**

Nikita sat on her bed in the presidential suite, thick down pillows hugging her back and legs pressed firmly into her chest. Her chin rested on her knees, and her eyes stared past the silent flat-screen television set, through the elegantly painted wall, and toward the majestic Canadian Rockies capped in white toques of snow.

Perched up in one of the many towers of the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel, Nikita might have, at one point in her youth, imagined herself a princess here, but the cold reality of the murderous world she lived in made her feel more like the wicked queen who would have locked up the princess.

Tactically, this was a good room to be in. The 360-degree views of the valleys the room afforded was ideal for her mission, or rather her mission takedown.

But these walls held more than just her usual arsenal of sniper rifles, Berettas, and Glocks—they held memories. Not this room, but a room just like this. Dangerous things had happened in this hotel, and not all of them involved gunfire and murder; some things had happened here that were far more dangerous. Secrets lingered in the linens, thoughts half-expressed clung to the thick drapes, fresh tears permeated the carpets. A lot had gone down in this hotel, and now Nikita was back to make it right.

She wondered if Michael would be on the mission. She wondered if he would allow himself to remember just how much had gone wrong here.

Nikita glanced to her right, where the warm light of the candelabras glinted off of the dark metal of Michael's knife. It was a reminder of one of the darkest moments in their relationship, and she hoped one of the last. But Michael was as stubborn as she was, and when it came to him, nothing was ever as easy as she wished.

Her computer chirped from downstairs in the loft. Another mission update from Alex probably. Nikita knew her protégée was on the team hired to kill Oksana Nodova, a member of Gogol as well as a femme fatale responsible for seducing a secret or two out of Percy, much to his great chagrin. Nikita remembered Oksana from her recruit days, but back then the woman went by Helina and was already an agent by the time Nikita had started her training. In fact, Nikita was the one responsible for outing her, though quite incidentally. She wondered how Oksana would react to seeing her again. In the end, it hardly mattered. This mission would be personal for Percy, which was why it was personal for Nikita.

She descended the spiral staircase into the expansive living room, where some nice bellboy had lit a fire for her in the hearth. The sun had dipped behind the peaks of the mountains, and only a few spears of orange light could struggle over the behemoths and into the room. Shadows lengthened and twitched at the mercy of the dancing flames. A wash of sorrow swept over Nikita as she imagined another life—a life where instead of suitcases full of weapons, there would be suitcases full of lingerie and instead of plans for revenge, there would be plans for dinners and drinks in front of a romantic fire.

But with another insistent beep from the computer, those images were dashed, and instead Nikita returned her focus to the task at hand. "You there?" and "Sensei?" waited impatiently for her on the screen.

Though her shell program had been discovered and dismantled within Division, now that Alex was an agent, Nikita had a chance to reinstate it on a smart phone she had gifted her partner for the mission—to be ditched upon completion of the op, of course. It worked like texting but without the inconvenient electronic trail, and there were no messy calls to be overheard.

"I'm here," Nikita typed. "Where are you?"

"Room 436. Nice digs. Bet yours are nicer."

"Expensive taste. Less money for your inheritance." She couldn't see Alex, but she pictured her smiling.

"Not sure how many of us there really are. I know of at least six agents. Stationed throughout hotel, waiters, housekeepers, guests. Will have to be careful because their posts are changing."

"Any sign of Percy?" But Nikita already knew the answer.

"No. As far as I know, he's not coming."

"Of course," Nikita said. "Can't even clean up his own mistake. Sends in the innocents to do his dirty work like always." But she just wrote lamely, "Too bad."

There was a long pause before Alex's response, long enough that Nikita began to worry the mission may have started earlier than scheduled. Right as she was about to ask, she saw the words she had dreaded and hoped for: "Michael's here."

"Did he give any more details on the mission?" It wasn't really what she wanted to ask, but she always walked a line with Alex, unsure of how much to reveal about her complex relationship with Michael. For Alex, there was a danger of knowing too much, and for Nikita, a danger of thinking too much about it.

"Not really. He hardly said a word on the plane ride here. Seems distracted."

Maybe he hadn't been warped as much by Percy as she had thought. Maybe, underneath all that bravado and blind servitude, there was still a trace of the man she had always looked up to and cared about.

"When you get your first intel, let me know."

"You got it."

With that, Nikita signed off and stowed the computer. She had gotten here a day ahead of Division to surveil the hotel and find hiding places for all her equipment. She flirted with the bellboys and bartenders and got a feel for security. What she didn't yet know was with whom Oksana would be arriving. A woman of her caliber and particular rank in Gogol would hardly be travelling unaccompanied. It was time to await the guest of honor.

She donned a parka and snow boots as well as a ski cap and a pair of goggles. She looked like any other ski bunny ready for a big night on the slopes, but more importantly, she looked nothing like Nikita. It was hard to find outfits that actually changed her appearance without making her stick out from the crowd, but snow gear afforded that luxury of complete anonymity without sacrificing too much style.

After locking up the room and arming a discreet, remote security system, Nikita headed for the elevator when she rounded the corner and saw Michael at the end of the corridor. He was leaning against a wall, casually looking out a window at the lake.

She didn't panic—or at least show it—though her pulse quickened and every sense heightened. Turning suddenly or running would only catch his attention, so she lowered her head, pulled out her cell phone and in perfect French began speaking with no one at all. "Yes, darling, I'm on my way…. Don't make fun. You know it takes me forever to put on these stupid ski suits.…You're going to get it for that remark…. Make it two spankings!"

Nikita didn't glance at Michael, but she felt his eyes on the back of her jacket. She wondered what he was thinking as she created this ridiculously private dialogue between two lovers. She knew he spoke French, and as always, his keen ears would be listening. Did he remember Banff Springs six years ago the same way she did? Did he even care to?

When the elevator door opened, she let out a light laugh and promised to give her French lover "a really hard time tonight." And then the door closed and she was safe. She snapped the phone shut and leaned into the wall letting her forehead rest against the cool metal.

"Might as well face it, girl," she said to herself. "There's going to be a whole lot more where that came from. We've got a bumpy night ahead."

**2005 - Division**

There was a firm, single rap at Nikita's door, but she was feeling too lazy and comfortable to get out of bed. She was browsing a gossip magazine she had bought above ground after her last mission one month ago, so even though many of the celebrities had probably already moved on to bigger and better lovers and cheated on the old ones along the way, it was still nice to have some semblance of normality in the dark hole that was Division. She didn't feel like having that interrupted.

This time the second knock occurred as the door was already being opened. "Can I come in?"

Nikita sighed but didn't lift her eyes from the page splattered with Brad's betrayal of Jennifer. "I don't get you people. If you're just going to come in anyway, why even bother to ask?"

"Because we know you'll get over it. Now stand up. I've got an adventure for you."

Despite herself, Nikita flicked her eyes from the magazine to the handsome rogue lording over her with his intense presence. Michael knew her well enough by this point to know what words titillated her, and "adventure" was one of them.

"You've been activated." He watched her, looking for some note of excitement or curiosity, but he was awarded only a pair of wary eyes.

"What kind of mission is it this time?" she began spitefully, sitting up on her bed and tossing her magazine to the floor. "Assassinate a grandmother at her grandson's playground? Garrote a high school music teacher after a concert? Sleep with a senator before a major debriefing?" She shot up from the bed, ready to storm out the door.

Michael suddenly grabbed her left hand slipped an enormous diamond ring on her finger. "Not exactly. Marry me?" He said it casually with that wry smile he sometimes wore when they were sparring and he was beating her, that precious moment of lightness that reminded Nikita that not everyone down in Division was a robot, that Michael had feelings too.

The proposal had momentarily floored her, and she was surprised how brazenly her heart slammed against her ribcage, worse than any of the cardio exercises she had endured in Division, worse than any of ops she'd been on yet. She could hardly take her eyes off of the solitaire stone, nearly as large as marble. She lifted her hand and marveled at how even under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, the gem sparkled with the warmth of the sun she had only seen four times in the last six months.

Michael allowed himself a small but rewarding grin—Nikita didn't see it, so no harm, no foul. She was, he admitted to himself, radiant in that moment, more beautiful than any stone man had ever unearthed. And in that same moment, she was innocent again—not a killer, not a recruit he had shaped to be clever and merciless and beguiling. She beguiled naturally, through no fault of her own. Then Michael remembered himself, stowed his smile but remained a touch playful. He raised one eyebrow. "Don't you know it's cruel to keep a man waiting for such an important answer?"

Nikita's head snapped up, and she regained her faculties. This was still Division, this was still her room, she was still in limbo somewhere between recruit and full-fledged agent, and he was still her mentor. "Not much for romance, are you, Michael? Sure, it's a pretty ring, but a lady like me needs more than a big rock to make a lifetime commitment like this."

"Oh yeah?" he said, biting the inside of his cheek. "Like what?"

Nikita lowered her hand, heavy with several carats that now decorated it. She circled him, his hands rising assertively to his hips. "You want me to say yes, you have to woo me."

He laughed—Michael actually laughed—one big, astonished "ha", and then shook his head. "You do realize this is a mission, don't you? Wooing is not part of the deal."

Eventually, she made her way around him and faced him, crossing her arms over her chest and making sure the diamond was pronounced against her glowing skin. "Hey, this is my finger, remember? Division doesn't own this finger, I do. And if you're going to be taking up any realty on it, I expect you to earn it. Now, get down on one knee and earn, son."

"Nikita—" He wanted to sound stern, but he worried he sounded more like desperate.

"Ah, don't suck out all the romance now. You'll lose your paramour. Come on, this is what every little girl dreams of."

Michael pressed his lips together and studied her face. Her eyes were resolute, and dazzling as usual. He could pull rank, do this the hard way, force her to play the part the way Percy might if he were in the same position. But more flies with honey, right, so where was the problem. Besides, they were going to have to sell an act, a very important one, and the truth was a newly engaged couple was all about romance, so perhaps Nikita had a point.

Grudgingly, Michael dropped to one knee, that small smile still flickering across his lips, but more importantly in his eyes. He reached for her hand again, this time taking his thumb and dragging it deliberately across the plain of flushed skin on top. He took a moment to revel in her shallow but noticeable intake of breath at his contact. "Nikita, darling," he added in his most saccharine voice, and she rolled her eyes, "will you do me the honor of making me the happiest of men?"

"Only because I can't stand to watch you beg me anymore. It's kind of pathetic." Michael stood up immediately and raised both eyebrows, instantly letting go of her. "Just a tip, if you ever propose again, try a little more sincerity and a little less smarm."

"What makes you think there would ever be an 'again'?"

Nikita shrugged. "Lots of beautiful young recruits here, lots more people for Division to murder."

Michael's eyebrows pinched together. When had their play shifted to a moral debate? "Nikita, we've been over this. We are serving the good of our nation."

"Well, it doesn't feel good, so how can it be good." She turned her back to him and stared at The Killers album poster she had been awarded after winning her first debate in perfect Farsi—the irony of the band name was not lost on her.

She felt white hot pressure on her shoulders and glanced to her left to see her mentor's hands resting gently on her flesh. "We sacrifice our feelings, our freedom, our futures so that countless others don't have to sacrifice theirs. But it doesn't have to be all bad." Michael turned her around, still holding her shoulders and now her gaze. His eyes were unfathomable, but in their depths she saw something she dared to think was hope. "This op is intel only. No one gets hurt, we just get information."

Like she had a choice anyway. She looked down at the ring, at his hands, at his face, and maybe he was right—it might not be _all_ bad. "What's the mission?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**2005 – Division**

Nikita sat ramrod straight across from Amanda like she always did—like she was a spring tightly coiled and ready to explode at any moment. The usual cups of tea steamed between them, but she declined the proffered cup. Otherwise, silence permeated the room. Nikita liked to think she didn't rattle too easily, at least not a year and a half into her training at Division, but Amanda always had an unnerving presence about her. Basting in the silence made the young agent nervous, though not enough to speak first and give her companion the upper hand.

After several minutes of scrutinizing Nikita, Amanda spoke. "You do understand what Division is asking of you on Operation Harbinger?"

Her inner spring did not loosen at the sound of the frigid woman's voice. "Of course. Gain the Starlings' trust, learn the names of the diamond smugglers and their transports, and become investors in their smuggling ring. Intel only."

Amanda nodded but continued to survey her for an extra moment. "This is deep cover, Nikita, deeper than what you've done before."

"So? I've gained a target's trust before. I can do it again."

"So you have, but not with a partner. You're not completing this op on your own. In fact, you can't. The mission requires you to weave a believable intimate relationship between you and Michael."

"I know," Nikita said petulantly, glancing away to the dresser behind Amanda. "I was at the briefing too."

Amanda gave a small smile. "It's a hard thing to fake a romantic relationship with someone you don't really love." Nikita didn't respond. "I have watched Michael take a bit of shining to you during training. He really sees potential in you."

Nikita returned her eyes to the woman who she was increasingly viewing as her opponent. "Well, I have a lot of potential," she added cavalierly. She didn't like where Amanda was steering the conversation.

"Indeed. Potential for a lot of things, I imagine. I want you to know, Nikita, that it's okay to be fond of your mentor. Michael has done a lot for you, spent a lot of time with you. He will continue to guide you in your tenure here at Division."

"Get to the point," Nikita snapped. Uh-oh, she was losing her nonchalance; it was the last thing she ever wanted to do in front of the keen-eyed Amanda.

There was that gentle smile again. "To be successful in your new life, Nikita, you must always remember the difference between your cover—the fantasy you're creating—and the reality of your world. Anything you might be made to do or feel on this mission will be forged in lies. What you will have with Michael is fake. Remember that: it's counterfeit, disposable even. I hope you take what I'm saying to heart."

Nikita stared directly into Amanda's eyes and felt herself harden like cement. Who did this woman think she was, making these wild insinuations and outrageous assumptions. Nikita knew this was an op, not a honeymoon. She had never felt more insignificant, more belittled in her entire time in Division. Sure, there was more to Michael than the other agents, and she respected him more than anyone else there, but thinking so little of her, like she was some cheap floozy just waiting to manipulate the next guy, that was a low blow.

"Why are you sending me then if you don't trust me?"

"Now that's not what I'm saying at all. We trust you, Nikita. In your time here, you've excelled in nearly every field. I know you're a very capable woman." The way she said the last line, Nikita got the distinct impression that Amanda was dubious of just what she was capable.

The young agent sighed. "Whatever. If you didn't pick me for the mission, who did?"

Amanda pursed her lips and then stood up, smoothed out the creases of her cobalt blue dress, and gestured toward the row of beautiful outfits hanging on the rack. "Come, dear, let's pick out what you'll be wearing."

**2011 – Banff**

The lobby of the hotel thrummed with activity. New arrivals chattered excitedly as they approached the check-in desk, and ski pants chaffed with that familiar song as eager skiers prepared for a night on the slopes. Nikita's eyes scanned the crowd. In here, she noticed two Division agents, one dressed as a tired snowboarder nursing a drink by the fire, the other disguised as new guest recouping from jet lag in the gift shop. They might have been harder to pick out if their eyes weren't bouncing like pinballs around the room. Nikita kept her head low and hugged the perimeter of the room.

Oksana's plane was scheduled to land at four o'clock, and Nikita expected her at any moment. What she didn't expect was Michael to make his way into the lobby and hover just ten feet from her before selecting a chair with a good vantage, his eyes also fixed on the hotel entrance.

He was dressed in a plain white long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans. The jeans are what got to her. She had seen him in suits for such a long time, it was impossible not to smile at his casual dress. He looked so normal, so unassuming, and for a moment her heart hurt, that had his life taken a different path, perhaps he would be here in these same clothes, not anticipating a kill but rather a soak in a hot tub.

But Nikita remembered why they were here, and she knew everything would be blown to hell if she didn't make herself invisible. She chose an open chair with its back to Michael and focused her energy on catching the sound of his voice. "Target acquired. Eyes on the doors, guys."

She pulled out a compact mirror and watched the entrance over her shoulder. A short, slender blonde woman strolled into the lobby in a knee-length fur coat with her Louis Vuitton bag draped over her arm. Her close-cropped hair was slicked back away from her face and over her ears. Her skin was milk white, and combined with the platinum hair, she looked a bit like a ghost. Nikita smiled when she realized this was Percy's very own poltergeist. Oksana had that dangerous allure about her; it was easy to see in her distinctly confident walk that she was a predator despite her beauty.

Three very obvious Russian bodyguards followed her in, and though they tried to remain discreet, it was hard to hide hulking six-foot frames and tight-set jaw lines, even in ski resort wear. "Copy that," Michael said. "Move to station two."

Nikita watched the snowboarder as he moved toward the restaurant and the souvenir shopper as she replaced the snow globe she was handling and headed toward the concierge. Michael remained in his seat. "Keep your eyes open for Nikita."

At the mention of her name, she snapped her compact shut. So he expected her. Alex hadn't reported it, so he must have been hiding his suspicions. Was it his gut, or was he just getting a feel for which missions she took on? Did he want to see her here? More than likely though it was Percy. He would have apprised Michael of the importance of this op, but more than that, he would have noted how personal it was for him to take down the greatest spy to ever infiltrate his airtight organization. The importance of the case was all the red flag Michael would need to figure out her involvement. And if he remembered 2005, then so be it, but it was on the back burner. With Michael, the op always came first—well, almost always.

She would have to be more careful. If they were looking for her as well as Oksana, it would make it much more difficult to get close to the Gogol operative. Oksana finished checking in and headed with the guards toward the elevator.

"Target is on the move," Michael noted. "Team Omega, be ready. Monitor only, do not engage. Report back in five for your next assignment."

Though she couldn't see him, Nikita heard him stand and walk away, judging from his footsteps, toward the elevator. When she was confident Michael had left, she headed back to her room, taking precautions so she wouldn't run into any agents along the way. It was bad enough Michael was on the lookout for her, but she had seen him on her floor. She knew what room Oksana was in, and she certainly wasn't staying on the same floor. So why was he there? The alarm she had placed on her room had not gone off, so at the very least, Nikita was sure no one had broken in. As far as she knew, he suspected her but had not found her.

Well, there was no need to stress on it yet. She still had a very important mission at hand, and Alex would be back from receiving her next set of instructions. Obviously Percy had Michael playing this one very close to the chest. He hadn't given the agents many instructions yet, so they were probably all on a need-to-know basis. It reminded Nikita exactly how Percy viewed his agents—as dispensable assets, tools with which he could manipulate the world to fit his designs—and it gave her a renewed sense of purpose. Once she knew Division's plans for Oksana, she would thwart them, revel in her victory, and move on to the next op. In theory, it would all be very cut and dry. But in theory, her last mission here should have been the same.

She rounded the corner to her room, and right as she was about to slip her card key into the lock, she heard the door to the room behind her open. "Hello, Nikita."

Her whole body froze. What was he doing here?

**2005 - Division**

Amanda's office always seemed more inviting when the ice queen wasn't in it. For the time being at least, Nikita had the room to herself as she finished trying on the last of her outfits for Operation Harbinger. She heard the door open and peeked over the changing screen to find Michael waiting for her with his hands in his pockets.

"Nikita, time to go. Our plane leaves at 0900."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, Amanda's chastisements still bubbling in her brain. But when she looked at Michael, she couldn't help what happened to her. She said things she shouldn't, things she clearly knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't stop them from coming out of her mouth. "Amanda told me you'll be my handler on the mission."

Michael nodded. "Essentially."

She told herself stop—don't. But she never listened, not even to herself. "You really think you can handle me?" She emerged from behind the changing screen in a vibrant green dress that made the natural hues of her eyes sparkle. It was scandalously short, something she would probably only wear for the man she loved, not out in general public, but Amanda had been insistent on it-apparently Mr. Starling, the target, fancied green.

Michael had seen her in many dresses, and she had looked beautiful in all of them, but there was something special about this one, something bewitching. If he wasn't careful, she would be the end of him. "I've handled C-4 and live grenades, so I think I can handle an undisciplined spitfire like you."

Nikita feigned contempt. "Undisciplined? Apparently the prodigal son hasn't been made aware of just how many of his records here I've broken."

She loved teasing him; it came as naturally as breathing. "Don't fall in love with me," she warned playfully. "Amanda said not too."

And suddenly it didn't feel like play anymore. Michael's gaze intensified, though he hardly moved a muscle. He kept watching her, like he was seeing into her, and Nikita felt very exposed. She crossed her arms over her chest and disappeared back behind the screen.

"I have to change into my travel clothes. I'll just be a second. Amanda had me try on all the outfits to make sure they fit." She sounded like she was babbling, that horrid kind of nervous chatter that only alerts everyone to one's anxiety. Nikita hated how helpless it made her sound. The last thing in her whole world that she needed was for Michael to think she was a weak-willed recruit. She wasn't sure why that was so important, perhaps because he was her mentor, but she knew it was.

She changed back in to a more modest but still body-hugging deep-V sweater and a pair of black leggings. When she reemerged, she thought she saw Michael exhale, like he'd been holding his breath. But these walls, particularly the walls of Amanda's office, did funny things. It was probably her own sigh of relief she noticed. "Ready," she said a tad sheepishly.

Michael nodded. "Don't worry about the rest of your things. Division will make sure they get to us at the hotel."

Nikita bowed her head, averting her eyes from him the whole walk to the elevator. When the doors closed on them, and they were alone, she felt the space constrict, almost like it was pressing them both together though neither of them had moved. She fidgeted the entire ride to the surface.

Just before the elevator stopped, Michael turned to her and said, "You realize we're on our own this mission. No other agents for back up. We have to rely solely on each other to make sure our cover isn't busted." His eyes searched hers. "If you're uncomfortable, try not to show it. We might have to—that is, the nature of our cover is, you know." He glanced down at the ring on her finger. She had never seen Michael flounder for words ever. She wondered what she'd gotten herself into, what plans Division may have had without telling her. Was this his warning?

The doors opened, and they emerged into a brightly lit office with several employees milling about. Michael backed up and gestured for her to exit first. They were starting their new life together, and at least for one week, they would have what by all appearances would be a normal life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**2011 – Banff**

Keeping her back to him, Nikita shook her head once in disbelief. "Owen, you idiot, what in the hell are you doing here?"

"I followed you," he said bluntly.

Nikita cursed under her breath but finished opening the door to her suite. She turned to him and scowled. "In," she commanded, her fiery eyes branding him.

Owen threw up both hands as a gesture of mercy and entered her room. "Awfully jumpy, aren't we?"

"No, 'we' are not jumpy. _I_ am pissed off. You're going to blow the mission." Though she didn't slam the door, it was clear how furious she was. "Sit."

Owen complied, falling back onto a loveseat and kicking his feet over its arm. "Aw, come on. Cut me a little slack, will ya? Nobody's seen me. It's fine."

Nikita sighed and stripped off her parka, tossing it over a chair. She disappeared around the corner of the room and came back with her laptop. She took a seat at the desk and turned it on. "I thought you were in London searching for the next black box."

He raised both eyebrows playfully and licked his lower lip. "I was. I found it."

She spun in her chair and perused his cocky frame stretched languidly across the furniture. She wanted to smile but then remembered she was furious. "Why didn't you just call? I would have met you there when I was finished."

Owen shrugged. "I know. I wanted to tell you in person. Thought I owed you that much."

"Owen, this," she gestured angrily between the two of them, "is a business relationship. We don't have to have a tête-à-tête every time you do something right."

"Relax, boss. I'm here to help. Remember, on the plane from Santiago, you said we were partners."

"I already have a partner."

"Your mole, I get it." Owen actually managed to look a little hurt, but he quickly recovered. "But he can't be here by your side all the time like I can. Think how much easier it will be to take down Division with all three of us."

She sensed there was something more to this story than just wanting to take down the monster that Division had become, but as Amanda had once told her, "It's very rude to question a gift."

"You have five minutes to explain to me how you got here." She started a timer on her computer. "Go."

Owen tilted his head to the side. "Seriously? Aren't you being a little hard on me."

"Four minutes forty-five, forty-four, forty-"

"All right, I get it. I showed up at your place in New York, but you were leaving. I followed you to the airport."

"How'd you get on the plane?"

"Bought a ticket." Nikita glared disbelievingly at him. "Fine, I _borrowed_ a ticket and an ID from a gentleman in line. Didn't know I'd be coming to Canada."

"And you can't get through Customs with a hastily modified drivers license," she countered.

"Who said I went through Customs?" He winked. "Intrigued yet?"

Despite herself, Nikita grinned. "I'll let you know."

Owen laughed. "Percy trained me a little better than that. Guardian training was no walk in the park, you know."

"Okay, how'd you swing the suite across from mine?"

"Oh, that. Bumped into the couple who is staying there on my way down to dinner, fancy that. They invited me up." He presented their key card between his two fingers.

She snatched the key from his hand. "Invited indeed. I'm slightly impressed."

"Only slightly?" He smiled at his beautiful partner, and Nikita could see a flash of the devil in his eyes. She wondered exactly how much she could trust Owen and if it was even a good idea. Still, she had to admit he had a magnetic pull despite who he was and what he'd done. Would Daniel forgive her for teaming up with his killer?

She leaned back in her chair and studied him. "Don't push it. Well, since you're here, I guess you better earn your keep."

"Who's the target?"

"Oksana Nodova, also known as Helina. Russian spy for Gogol. She infiltrated Division eight years ago. If Michael was Percy's right hand, she was his left. Rumor had it she had a fling going on with Percy, though no one ever confirmed it, least of all him."

"Gross."

"Pretty much my thought."

"How'd they find out she was playing for the other team?"

She pointed to herself. "My fault. I was in Operations while Helina was discussing a failed op with Percy, Michael and Amanda. I overheard her say, 'It's a bad workman that has a bad saw.'"

"How does a workman and a saw reveal she's a double agent?"

She frowned at him. "You've been rogue for what, five months? You act like you didn't have to sit through Linguistics every day. It's a Russian expression, means the screw-up blames it on the tools. So not thinking, I said, 'I didn't know you were from Russia.' And that was all she wrote. Amanda politely asked to see her in her office. Next thing Division knew, the alarms were blaring, three guards were dead, and Helina was gone with flash drive of info. Percy's been hunting her ever since."

"An enemy of Percy's is a friend of mine."

"Not all of them. Oksana is a threat. She's a member of Gogol, which has pretty much made it clear that once Division's gone, they'll take over where it left off."

"So you're saying we take her out?"

Nikita shook her head. "Haven't figured that out yet."

"What are we doing here then? If you're not going to let her go and you're not going to take her out, then why did you even come?"

Nikita walked to the window and rested her hand against it, looking out into the black valley sewn with the occasional string of lights. The world hadn't changed much here in six years. "That's a good question."

"What did you get me into?"

She glanced at his reflection in the window, momentarily forgetting her dangerous train of thought. "You followed me, remember?"

"The rat to the Pied Piper."

"I especially like that you're the rat."

Owen laughed. "I suppose I set myself up for that one. I never did think much about consequences."

Nikita's mind returned to the untamed snowy wilderness. "Most of us never do," she muttered.

**2005 – Banff**

Things had been quiet on the way up to Banff aside from talking a bit of strategy. The mission hadn't really started, yet Nikita could feel tension mounting between them, and she wasn't sure why. Maybe she didn't know what she was getting into, maybe there was something Michael wasn't telling her.

She thought working this closely with him would be fun. There was no doubting their chemistry, and though she was years behind him in training, somehow they were equally matched. Whoever had picked her for this mission saw it too. Most of the rare moments of pleasure she found in Division centered around her interactions with him.

That is when he wasn't training her to kill.

But this mission was about extracting knowledge from unwitting third parties. And she was Nikita. Nikita always had time to mix a little pleasure with business.

As their car rounded the bend at the foot of one stony giant, Nikita gasped at hidden world that unfurled before her. Beyond a placid turquoise lake, the Fairmont Banff Springs loomed like a Scottish lord's long-cherished castle. Spires soared toward the heavens in envy of the colossal mounds of rock that nature had long ago jettisoned forth. The entire scene was coated in a blanket of white nearly a foot deep, and pine boughs surrendered to the incredible weight of their wintry shawls. Nikita couldn't ever remember feeling more alive or free.

She glanced at Michael, caught his eye, and shot him a grin that she hoped conveyed half the joy she felt. Judging from the softness in his expression, she thought it got through.

While their driver pulled up to the entrance, Michael turned to Nikita and said quietly, "Cover starts now. It ends when the mission ends." She nodded and felt the first tremble of wings against her stomach walls, though whether it was from the anticipation of the mission or their cover, she couldn't tell.

The driver opened Nikita's door and helped her out of the vehicle. Michael was standing behind him with an open hand. "Come, darling," he said gently.

The moment her hand filled his, Nikita felt the spark ignite their natural chemistry. His skin was so warm against the bitter chill of the wind that encapsulated them. If Michael noticed, he didn't acknowledge it.

He led her into the lobby of the grand hotel, and as they approached the front desk, he released her hand to move his to the small of her back. She felt a shiver, though it could have been from the gust that had followed them through the doors. Oh no, she thought, he would not play this kind of game with her. Nikita loved games, but more importantly she loved to win them, and this one would be no exception.

"Welcome to Banff. Checking in?" the woman behind the counter asked in a singsong voice.

"We are," Michael confirmed.

"Last name?"

"Moorefield. David Moorefield."

The woman studied her computer for a moment. "Staying in one of our Presidential Suites? I promise you'll be very pleased with the accommodations. What brings you to Banff?"

Nikita brightened and saw her window of opportunity. She leaned into Michael and shucked off her glove, presenting her left hand to the lady. "We just got engaged," she squealed.

"That's wonderful, congratulations. You two make an absolutely beautiful couple."

"We do, don't we, muffin?" she said, resting her chin on Michael's shoulder and staring at his face. She watched the creases deepen around his eyes and mouth, his way of suppressing the smile that said "you're going to get it." Her suspicions were confirmed when he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"We do," he agreed. The woman handed them their key cards and wished them all the happiness in the world.

The second the doors to the elevator closed, Michael rounded on her. " 'Muffin'? Don't you think that's overkill?"

"Oh, come on, that's what engaged couples do. They call each other stuff like pumpkin and cupcake and schmoopy bear."

Michael took a step toward her and pointed a finger at her. "If you call me—" He could barely bring himself to say it. "—schmoopy bear, I make no promises that this will not become a take down."

"Now that's overkill," she quipped.

The front desk attendant's promise that they would be pleased with the room was an understatement. The suite had two floors, with a spiral staircase leading from the inviting living area to the regal bedroom. Nikita had never been in a hotel this classy or expensive. Their bags were already sitting inside the front door, and a fire had already been lit, casting a romantic glow about the room.

"Nice to know my fiancé's loaded," she said breathlessly.

Michael strolled into the room and immediately began unpacking his laptop and files from his suitcase. "So you're saying you're not just marrying me for my money."

"Hardly. It's the Moorefield charm I can't resist."

Nikita dragged her hand along the furnishings, trying to remind herself that this world was all smoke and mirrors. That became easier the moment Michael placed his gun on the desk beside a folder packed with confidential information.

"Couch looks pretty comfy," she observed idly, swirling the luxurious drapes between her fingers.

"Good news for you."

Nikita gaped at him. "You're not honestly going to make me sleep there."

Michael stopped fussing with the paperwork long enough to steeple both hands on the top of the desk. The mischief in his eyes taunted her. "I won't make you do anything. I'll give you two options, and you may choose whichever is the least offensive. One, you can take the couch since you are still my subordinate. Two, you can share the bed as long as you promise no funny business."

"Chivalry is officially dead because Division just assassinated it."

The laugh from Michael was almost as rewarding as the stay at the resort itself.

Nikita lowered her eyes, suddenly a bit shy, a feeling to which she was wholly unaccustomed. "Michael, are you really serious? Should I be sharing the bed with you?"

His breath was audible as he too dropped his gaze. "I told you before we left that things might get a bit uncomfortable, but this is the world of deep cover. As long as you can distinguish between the invention and the reality, there won't be a problem."

She nodded quickly and headed upstairs to unload her things. As she unpacked her gowns and make up and underwear into dresser drawers and closets, she could feel the normality of life she was feigning pressing in on her. How much she wanted to get lost in it, but how very dangerous it was. Michael was right—this was all a carefully constructed invention of the organization she worked for, and that was as far as it went. In a week's time, she'd be back underground until her next activation. All the elegant balustrades and fine artwork and gourmet meals would become a very pretty memory of a half-realized dream.

"Nikita!" He called her name from downstairs like he was calling her to dinner.

She rejoined him at the desk where he had two photos laid out, Mr. and Mrs. Edward and Michelle Starling, their targets. "First contact will be tonight. The Starlings have a reservation in the Banffshire Club. Our goal is to get acquainted and secure a future meeting. We'll mention that we're engaged early on. We want to focus their attention on the ring in particular. It will be our ticket in later. We don't leave until we have plans with them tomorrow."

Nikita nodded. "Amanda said I should wear the green dress tonight."

"Don't wear that one," he said quickly, hiding his face from view.

"She said—"

"Not tonight," he repeated firmly. After a pause, he added, "It's not right for the restaurant. Pick something else."

"I guess I could wear the silver one," she said slowly, studying what little of his profile she could still see.

"Whatever else you like." And that was last thing he said to her for the next hour.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **First of all, thank you all for you kind reviews. I didn't expect such an outpouring.

To be totally honest, I have very little idea where this story will end up. I feel like Nikita and Michael are running the show in my head, and I'm just kind of following them around with a pen and paper. They've been really busy, so I'm trying to keep up. You can officially thank them for the fast updates.

Also, this chapter will solely be in the past, so I imagine the next will be solely in the future. I'd like to keep an even balance between the two to give a taste of where they started and where they're going. Glad to know you folks think it's working! Enjoy!

**Chapter Four**

**2005 – Banff**

They stood in the doorway to the Banffshire Club, her arm laced through his, both their eyes scanning the restaurant for signs of their target. "Got them," Michael said. "Four o'clock." Nikita's gaze followed his toward the windows where the Starlings sat sharing a basket of bread.

Both targets were in their forties. Edward's brown hair was now fringed with enough gray to make him look sophisticated without looking old. Michelle, on the other, had made obvious attempts to hide her age, judging by her artificially tightened skin, overly full lips, and blenched hair. Still, they looked like a powerful couple, their expensive taste evident in their elegantly tailored clothes as well as Michelle's jewelry.

Remember your cover, she told herself, you never know who's watching.

Nikita leaned up to Michael's ear under the guise of romance, letting her lips brush his ear lobe. "I'll get us the in," she whispered.

Michael looked down at her immediately with a mixture surprise and upset. "Fine," he said tightly. "But don't ever do that again."

"Did I turn you on?" she teased.

Michael's stare hardened with his jaw. "Jane," he scolded, though without his playful tone. She smiled.

When the host arrived, Michael asked for a window seat so they had an excuse to pass the Starlings' table, and on their way back to their seats, Nikita took her opening, placing her right hand on Michael's arm to halt him. "One second, honey?" She then gave her full attention to Michelle. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she began sweetly, "but I just have to ask you, are those canary diamonds? They look VVS quality at least."

Michelle's hand fluttered to her neck, clearer signs of her age evident in the loose skin gathered there. "You certainly have an eye for gemstones. Why, yes, they are." While Nikita kept her eyes fixed on the wife, Michael was watching the husband. Nikita's opening was the perfect one. Edward had leaned forward, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

"Well, I've become a lot more interested recently." Nikita disentangled her left arm from her fiancé's and presented her hand, the ring glinting mischievously in the soft lighting.

"Marvelous," Michelle said breathlessly. She was obviously enchanted. She took Nikita's hand and manipulated it gently back and forth, examining the quality of the diamond. "I only have a few in my collection quite so large and clear. Three carats?"

"Three and a half," Michael corrected.

"Quit the investment, young man," Edward offered, his brown eyes sizing up his new acquaintance.

Michael smiled. "Best of my life." He looked at Nikita, not the ring.

She withdrew her hand from Michelle's and swatted her fiancé on the shoulder, by all appearances lightly, but Nikita gave it just a bit of an extra oomph to teach Michael a lesson. If they felt it, his face didn't betray it except for maybe a tightening of his jaw. "He's always been such a tease." Michael's eyes brightened.

Both the Starlings grinned. "Well, congratulations to you both. You seem very well suited for each other," Michelle commented.

"And I'm sure that a three-and-a-half carat diamond doesn't hurt," Edward added. It was Michelle's turn to swat at her husband. He, on the other hand, did not find it very amusing and glanced sternly at his wife.

Nikita and Michael both offered their friendliest smiles. "Thank you for letting me interrupt. If you ever have the time, I would be delighted to know where you got such an exquisite necklace. You know, just in case David's ever in the market again."

Michelle glanced immediately at her husband, who nodded. "This might be a bit presumptuous, as we haven't even been properly introduced, but maybe you'd like to join us."

"Really?" Nikita looked surprised. "We don't want to ruin your dinner."

"Nonsense," Edward assured. "It could only enhance it. Any friend to my diamonds is a friend to me."

"Your diamonds?" Nikita gasped.

Edward seemed confident he had her. "I'll get the waiter."

Moments later the table of two became a table of four, with the genders divided on opposite sides. After introductions, it became clear Edward liked to be in control of the conversation; every silence would be abated by him, and most questions came through him. "How did you two meet?"

Michael looked to his partner, who knew to take up the story. "I'm a hopeless skier, but I love ski resorts, go figure. My sorority sisters planned a trip to Vail, so I pretty much had to learn. I scheduled a few lessons, but I took to it like a pig to flying. David found me on the bunny slopes in a tangle of skis. Such an embarrassing way to meet, but lucky for me, he didn't hold it against me."

"Who could?" He grinned nostalgically at her, and their eyes locked. Nikita reached for his hand, and he squeezed hers. So artificial, and yet so real. She noticed the Starlings seemed genuinely intrigued, and Nikita took the opportunity to twist her hand just so the candlelight on the table danced off her ring. Edward's eyes took to it instantly.

"How did you propose, David?" Michelle asked, caught up in their romance.

But her question was cut short by one from her husband with a wave of his hand. "The more important question is where did you find a stone that large? Awfully hard to come by in the States."

Yahtzee, Nikita thought.

Michael played elusive. "I've got a jeweler friend. They're easier to come by if you know where to look."

Edward nodded approvingly before turning his attention on Nikita. "Jane, I believe you said you liked my wife's necklace."

"More like adore. It's absolutely stunning."

"Much appreciated," he said, cutting off his wife's reply. "I'm a bit of an artisan in my spare time. I set the stones myself."

"Some hobby," she replied dreamily, lost in the near flawless depths of the yellow stones. "Maybe you can teach my fiancé some tricks. His hobbies are much duller." She patted Michael's hand.

"I'll tell you what. Tomorrow evening the hotel is hosting a big band party in the ballroom, dinner and dancing. Why don't you two come down, and maybe I can find out a bit more where your interests lie. David and I will be the horrible bores and talk a little shop, and you and Michelle can entertain yourselves."

Nikita looked at Michael, who casually shrugged. "Honey?" she implored.

"Whatever you say."

She turned to the Starlings and beamed at them. "We'd be delighted."

After their meals and some pleasant, if distant, conversation, the couples parted ways with the expectations of future meetings. Michael snaked his arm around her waist and led her toward the lounge. When she was sure they were out of earshot, she said, "Fish in a barrel."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "That was the easy part. Tomorrow the real infiltration begins."

She noticed he was leading her back toward the elevator. "We're not going back upstairs already?" she complained.

"We have work to do."

"Come on. Do we really need to spend 22 of our 24 hours in the room? There's a lot more to the resort."

Michael faced her and put both hands on her naked shoulders. "Nikita, this isn't a vacation, it's an op."

"Why does everyone keep telling me that like I don't know? What's wrong with wanting just a little more?"

"Because it'll never be enough. You get a little taste of something good, and you'll never stop wanting more." Their eyes met, and both realized just how close they were standing to one another. Only a few inches separated their noses, and more importantly their lips. Michael let go of her and called the elevator. Neither spoke on the ride up to the room, and aside from plotting out some strategy for the next evening, they didn't much talk.

Around two o'clock, Michael headed up to the bedroom, leaving his partner to stare out the window. She thought being alone might make her decision easier, but she found the emptiness of the room and her overwrought emotions made things worse. A thousand impossible scenarios cluttered her consciousness, so many she hardly knew what she was imagining. She saw images like double-exposed film: two pairs of tangled legs, twisted sheets; parted lips and carelessly flung pillows; the remains of room service and slowly dying embers in a fireplace. Nikita couldn't make sense out of the frenzy of visions, but she could feel just how anxious they made her.

She sat downstairs for about another hour, listening to the second hand of walk clock march ceaselessly on. For a moment, she envisioned Amanda's office and the frigid woman who occupied it. She could almost hear her.

"Remember you are Nikita. You can play a role without being the role. What you do as your cover is separate from what you do as Nikita. Don't confuse the two. Do you understand, Nikita, don't confuse the two."

Eventually, Nikita managed to get control over her erratic heart, and she found the confidence to change into the satin nightgown she had kept in the downstairs bathroom.

She moved toward the stairs. As her fingers gripped the pebbly metal, she knew with cold certainty that once she made it to the top of the steps, there would be no going back. Things would change.

You are Nikita, not Jane, she told herself, and her foot was able to find the step. She repeated that to herself the entire way up the spiral staircase. Somehow though, she felt like she was spiraling downward, and she clutched the railing tighter. I am Nikita, she said more firmly. She exhaled.

There was no escaping the image of the bed in front of her. Michael was laying in it, the sheet halfway up his bare chest. He was looking directly at her.

He is Michael, not David. Michael.

Nikita moved toward the bed, his eyes never leaving her. She approached her side, and his gaze followed. She pulled back the covers and eased her body in. The sheets were cold but welcoming, and yet they felt oddly foreign, like quicksand. She turned her head on the pillow and saw he was still watching her. If either of them breathed, she couldn't hear it, and she certainly couldn't feel it.

"Goodnight, David," she said without breaking eye contact.

"Goodnight, Jane."

And then Nikita rolled over with her back to him and stared straight ahead until sleep mercifully engulfed her.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Thanks for catching the name switch in the last chapter, friends. I corrected it! Enjoy the latest chapter.

**Chapter Five**

**2011 - Banff**

Nikita was bathed in warmth, like she had just taken her favorite sweater out of the dryer and wrapped it around herself. She stretched languidly, still bone weary from another restless night, and squinted into the sunlight which had somehow pierced the one slit between the drapes to wash over her face. Nikita wasn't entirely ungrateful though; waking up to the sun was leagues better than waking up to Division's timed fluorescence. She dressed quickly into a sweater and a pair of leggings before heading downstairs.

She found Owen stretched across the same loveseat he'd been on last night, his head tilted back over the armrest and his mouth hanging open, snoring lightly. "Get up," she said, tossing his bag onto his chest. He woke with a start, arms thrashing for a weapon. "Took your Glock after you fell asleep. Now come on, we have work to do." He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake the sleep away.

"You sure know how to treat a guy," he grumbled.

Nikita gave her trademark sassy smile. "Remember, no one invited you here."

Owen exhaled loudly while he changed shirts. "So did you make a decision about Oksana?"

"I did. I'm going to let her go. The target's Division, not Gogol. Yet. Besides, I kind of liked her when she was Helina, and in the end, she may be useful. After all, she did steal a flash drive from Division, and who knows what's on it."

"Plus it'll chap Percy's ass."

"Always a bonus."

"So what's the plan?"

Nikita opened her laptop and brought up the chat window from last night, rereading Alex's words once more. "Division plans to take down Oksana today while she's skiing on Mt. Norquay today, try to make it look like an accident. They'll have two teams of two on the mountain, one high, one low. The idea is to corral her to the tree line and take her out there."

"Where do we come in?"

"You'll take out the team on the bottom. Leave the top two to me."

"Aren't you glad I showed up?"

Nikita scoffed. "I took out a whole room of Division recruits on my way out of that hell hole. I think I could handle four agents without you." She paused and studied him for a moment. "But I'm not one to turn my nose up at less work." That was enough for Owen, and his cocky grin danced across his face.

"What about the other two? You said there were six Division agents here."

No need to tell him where to find her mole and her mentor. "You leave them to me. Now get dressed," she commanded. "We have to stop down in the sporting goods shop to get you some gear. We've got a lot of surveilling to do if we want to get ahead of Division, and I can't have you become the next Ice Man while we're on the slopes."

Owen immediately started gathering his things. It was the perfect diversion for Nikita to spend a few more minutes on the last words Alex had written that had kept her up for hours last night. "Michael's waiting for you."

It was the way Alex had written it that got to Nikita. Obviously Michael knew she was here, judging from what she'd overheard in the lobby last night, but why did Alex have to phrase it like that? It was like his door was open and he had invited her in. It was too late now to ask Alex what she meant, but if Nikita did her job right, she would be a ghost—Michael might feel her, but he would never see her.

Ghosts. This hotel was full of them. Whether it was ones in the local stories or just her own, these walls were definitely haunted. Ever since she'd stepped foot into the resort, Nikita had seen flashes of 2005. All the things that could have been and all the things that would never be. As Amanda had always told her, her problem had always been her inability to stop the bleeding between fantasy and reality. Lives were on the line here, lives that meant a lot to her, and for once she would actually take Amanda's advice. Best to burn out the memories now, she thought, like cauterizing a wound.

She closed out the chat, stashed the computer again, and led Owen down to the lobby, doing her best to focus on the present, on Oksana. They had no trouble purchasing white ski gear for Owen as the agents were elsewhere preparing for the mission. Once he was dressed, the two took a shuttle to Mt. Norquay.

In the lodge at the foot of the mountain, they rented a pair of snowmobiles and rode them to an inconspicuous spot at the foot of snow-laden forest. Nikita pulled out a trail guide and mapped out the positions of the Division detail in relation to the snowmobile trail. From there, the basic plan was simple: incapacitate the agents quickly and quietly, without loss of life if possible. If everything went according to plan, in a twelve hours time they'd be on their way back to the States, downing celebratory shots of whiskey. If.

Outside, clouds had bullied their way over the mountains, the peaks taking their vengeance by puncturing them like balloons. White confetti fluttered out softly, dampening the sounds of life at the resort, very good news for a pair of assassins.

They steered the snowmobiles along the path closest to the take down, maintaining a straight course until they found good cover around a bend. They parked behind a thicket of pines and stashed the vehicles. Owen looked down at his feet, sunk deep in the six inches of fresh powder, and frowned. "We should have brought skis or snowshoes."

"You ever do an op in snow? Not having use of your legs is a real liability, and the good news is the agents will be on skis. Keep your knees up, you'll be fine." She patted him on the pack and waved him ahead.

They crossed the trail at the bend and darted through the trees, their heartbeats racing at the extra exertion the snow demanded. Nikita felt cold sweat saturate the inside rim of her cap, and she longed to let her skin breathe. But she couldn't make herself more visible; it would give Alex more deniability when she didn't spot Nikita on the slopes.

At a break in the trees, Nikita halted, panting heavily. Owen pulled up next to her and leaned in. "Stick to the tree line," she said. "Division will have eyes on the op."

Owen scowled. "I thought you said you'd take care of the other two."

"I have." She let her words hang for a moment until realization dawned on his face.

"That's your mole." He shook his head in disbelief. "Damn, you're good. But what about the second person?"

She steadied her breathing. "Well, that's more of a wildcard. Let's move, snow's picking up. Remember, non-lethal where possible. Radio me when it's done." She tapped her ear piece, and Owen nodded. He took off downhill, leaving Nikita with the laborious task of running up the slope.

The snow was soft, cradling every footstep like the down pillows on her bed. An errant limb snapped back her across the face, sending a thin sliver of blood icing down her cheek. She mopped a glove over the wound without slowing down. She didn't have time to look at her watch, but she could feel her window of opportunity closing on her. Right about now, Oksana would be making her way down the hill, two body guards following. If she didn't take out Division right now, they'd be impossible to catch.

Nikita pushed herself harder, her calf muscles screaming, her knees burning and her lungs constricting, as every step sapped precious battle energy from her. She saw the first agent, his eyes glued up the hill. He had one finger to his ear, and though she couldn't hear what he was saying, so knew that was his cue to make sure the target was in range. He was an easy take down. Nikita came up behind him, slipped her baton over his head and put him in a sleeper hold. He went down into a peaceful heap on the blanket of snow.

"My targets are down," Owen whispered in her earpiece. "No casualties."

She couldn't respond. The next agent was close, just a few feet ahead. Nikita eased her way up to him but hit a patch of iced over snow, the horrible crunch alerting him to her presence at the last second. He turned right into a chop of her hand, instantly silencing his vocal cords. The agent reeled back, his arms windmilling and propelling him into a tree. His back slammed into the unrelenting wood, and he staggered, hands grasping frantically at his throat. Nikita pounced on him, sending one swift blow down onto his head. He was unconscious in an instant.

"All clear here," she radioed breathlessly back to Owen. "Meet you back in the room, and keep your head down. Division's still out there."

"Copy."

Nikita knelt down to the agent's body and searched him for anything useful but found nothing. A faint whoosh called her attention to the nearby ski run, where she saw a focused blonde woman hunched over, skiing at maximum velocity, a mist of silvery crystals billowing behind her. Several seconds later, two bulky men followed much less gracefully on their skis. No one followed after them.

Nikita plucked the radio from the downed agent's ear and listened. She was greeted by Alex's frantic voice. "Team One, I said deploy!" She wished she could say something back to her protégée, confirm their victory or tell her how well she sold the desperate agent act, but there would be one other party on that line, one Nikita wasn't yet ready to confront.

Instead, she dropped the ear piece into the snow. No use keeping it—Michael would switch frequencies as soon as he realized his mission had been compromised. She returned to her snowmobile, finding Owen had already gotten a head start. She followed the circuitous trail back to lodge so she wouldn't raise alarms and then returned to Banff Springs.

Owen was there, waiting for her with a wide grin plastered on his face. "Salut, boss," he said, offering her a glass of wine while sipping his own.

Nikita returned his smile but did not take the glass. "We're not done yet, Owen."

He raised an eyebrow. "But Oksana escaped."

"She doesn't know that. And the Division team is only crippled not destroyed."

"Then why didn't we use lethal force?"

Nikita shook her head in frustration and disappointment. "Those agents, they aren't all hopeless. We take out Percy, they could still have a future. You got your second chance, and I plan to give them theirs too."

Owen sighed and then downed everything in his glass before contemplating what was left in hers. "So now what?"

"Now we find Oksana. I hope you stole something nice to wear."

* * *

The snow was falling thicker and faster now, obscuring much of the mountain from view. Alex leaned against the chilly glass of her window in her temporary room at the Juniper Hotel at the foot of Mt. Norquay. She focused her spyglass on the ski run that Oksana would be coming down any moment. Her eye straining through the lens, she spied their target zig-zagging down the hill, her two guards trailing behind at a safe but protective distance. She pressed a finger to her ear and said, "Target is in sight. Move on my command."

"Copy, tower," she heard Andrew, one of the agents in Team One, respond.

Where are you, Nikita, she wondered. Running active missions with her rogue ally was obviously treacherous, but in some ways even more so than from inside Division when she was just a recruit. Alex could see firsthand exactly what could go wrong. Still, she waited as patiently as her thundering heart would let her. If Nikita was there, she was a ghost. Even knowing to expect her mentor, she was impressed she couldn't find her. From her vantage point in the hotel, Alex felt utterly useless. Worst of all, sitting to her left was Michael at his command post.

He had in front of him three laptops, one connected to the hotel's security system, one connected to their wireless devices, and the final one connected via satellite to Division itself. His eyes scanned them furiously, trying to make connections that had not yet presented themselves. The energy coming off him was intense, worse than Alex had ever felt it. Something was definitely up with Michael, and she had no way to probe for answers without raising suspicion.

Alex turned to him and said, "I'm losing visibility."

"Stick with the target as best you can," he guided.

She returned her attention to the slope and waited until Oksana passed a predetermined checkpoint before radioing to her team. "Team One, you are go." No response. Alex rode the wave of triumphant hope but did not let her face show it. "Team One, deploy now." Still no answer. "Team One, I said deploy!"

Oksana passed the second checkpoint, and Alex growled for effect. "Team Two, take out the target." Silence and more hope. "Team Two, do you copy?"

Alex turned and looked hopelessly at their leader. "Michael—"

"I know," he said, his eyes staring aimlessly out the window, "Nikita." His expression was unreadable.

After a moment, Alex reported, "Target has reached the bottom. Should we call Percy?"

Michael leaned back in his chair, his body language suddenly less rigid and his tone more teasing. "Why? We'll have another chance tonight."

"We're continuing the mission?" she stuttered. "But what about the others? We can't just leave them there. What if they're still alive?"

"Don't worry, Alex. We'll retrieve them. If they're still alive and—" He mulled over his next word carefully. "—mobile, we'll use them. For now I've got you. And the element of surprise."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**2011 – Banff**

The gentle sounds of a classical sonata invited Nikita and Owen into Castello Ristorante, the restaurant where Oksana would be dining that evening. Since the thwarted attempt on their target's life, Nikita hadn't heard anything from Alex, so she decided Division was likely regrouping—they had a few more hours at best.

It was an inviting space, almost entirely ringed by floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the beautiful architecture of the hotel. In the center of the room, a half-naked statue of a handsome man posed triumphantly with the head of a lion. There were a number of couples already enjoying their dinners, but their target, with her platinum hair, was easy enough to spot. She was seated on the other side of the room by a window with a man Nikita had never seen before.

He wasn't one of her bodyguards, who shared a nearby table, and he wasn't Michael. She couldn't quite make out his features, but it was easy enough to see the deep scar that sealed his left eye shut. Judging by their stiff body language, they were conducting business and they didn't trust each other. Chances were the transaction, whatever it was, was the reason Division became involved in the first place.

Nikita casually nudged her chin in Oksana's direction, and Owen followed with his eyes. "Recognize the man with her?"

He squinted. "Never seen him before."

"Me either." Something wasn't right.

A young man in a white shirt and black tie approached them with a welcoming smile. "Buon giorno. Do you have reservations with us this evening?"

"Actually, our friends are waiting for us." Nikita returned the smile and took Owen's arm, strolling toward Oksana's table.

As they rounded the statue, a voice paralyzed her. "Enchanté , mademoiselle," Michael said, grinning victoriously. Nikita hadn't even seen him, hadn't even thought to look—careless, careless. He was seated directly behind the statue, and sharing his table was Alex, who stared helplessly up at her mentor.

Michael's eyes flicked to Owen, and his grin faded, stern lips replacing it. He glanced down at their linked arms, and his eyes narrowed. Ghosts of the past.

Nikita tried to regain what footing she could and laughed. "Really? French, Michael? That was never your strong suit."

He leaned back in his chair. "Thought I'd take a refresher course when some charming French woman blew by me in the hall yesterday."

"You knew and you let me go?" Whatever footing she'd thought she'd retained went sliding out under her feet like shale.

He shrugged. "You had the advantage at the time. Thought I'd turn the tables for a change."

"All right. How'd you know I'd be here tonight?"

"Because you can never let things go," he said with too much bitterness. Even Alex had to shift her eyes to him. He cleared his throat and regained some composure. "You must have known we'd stay on to complete the op."

"Figured, but I also figured your team would need at least a day to recover."

Michael conceded with a nod. "For the most part." From the kitchen emerged a waiter that Nikita recognized as the first man she had taken down, the one she had put into a sleeper hold. He looked directly at her with an undisguised scowl on his face. Without hesitation, he made a straight line for Oksana's table.

"What are you going to do, Michael?" Panic surged through her like electricity.

"Relax, Nikita. My mission, my terms. Right now, I'm here for you. I want to show you who's in control."

That word. How much she hated it, and how much she hated the way Michael wielded it like he could a Sig Sauer or a knife. Only somehow it was all the more dangerous in his hands than an actual weapon. It was his code, his mantra, as impenetrable as blast-proof glass.

"You're always in control, aren't you? Well, almost always." She stared at him pointedly, forgetting about Owen and Alex. The whole restaurant faded away like reality was the dream and she was waking up from it at long last.

Though he looked perfectly composed, Nikita could tell from the storm in his eyes that the barb had done its job—Michael was hooked. He stood up slowly, tugging his suit jacket into precise place. "I'll tell you what," he said, his tone perfectly even, "I've got a mission to complete and you've got nowhere to go. So let's talk."

"Fine. What do you want to talk about?"

"Not here."

Automatically, her body assumed a defensive stance, her weight shifting to her back leg so she'd be ready for an assault. "If you think I'm letting Division box me into some room—"

He raised his hand to stop her. "You and me. No weapons, no allies," he said, glaring at Owen. "No escape."

"I make no promises to the third condition." She shot him that smile, the taunting one that never failed to elicit a response.

"Have a seat," he commanded Owen. The rogue operative looked to Nikita for help, but she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Once he sat down, Michael leaned toward Alex but kept his eyes on Owen. "He moves, you shoot his kneecaps." Alex nodded and shifted slightly in her seat, both hands lost underneath the table. Somewhere in the shadowy recesses below the pristine white tablecloth came the soft click of a gun being cocked.

Michael put his hand on the small of Nikita's back and led her toward the exit. "Just like old times," she said. Only this time his hand wasn't the lit fuse on the dynamite—it was flat out napalm. His heat spread up her spine and down her legs, branding every inch of her. And he had no idea—she would make sure he had no idea.

Right at the entrance, the host who had approached her with Owen smiled at her again. "Did you find your friends?"

She looked at Michael as she said quietly, "I'm not sure who I found."

The two left the restaurant, and Michael guided her to a nearby conference room. "Pick the lock," he ordered.

"I don't have any tools." But he just stared impatiently at her, and with an exasperated huff, Nikita pulled out a hair pin and popped open the door. Michael pushed her inside, and as soon as the door was closed, he locked it again.

"What's he doing here?" he snarled without further ado.

"What are they?" she countered.

Michael shook his head once and leaned closer to her. In a low, gravelly voice, he said, "Damnit, Nikita, this is our—" He cut himself off and let out a frustrated breath. "—mission."

She quirked an eyebrow. "I know. That's why I'm here to ruin it."

"Why here?" He punctuated each word with a shake of his fist.

Her features stilled, and she dipped her chin down slightly so she could look at him under her veil of thick lashes, her brown eyes searching his. Her voice was mostly a whisper. "So you do remember. Nice to know Percy can't kill all good things."

Michael put a hand to his temple and rubbed. "You know who Oksana is. You know what she's done and what she's capable of. This is a good op."

"Maybe, but it's also Percy's pet project. That makes it a great op."

"You have no idea what you're sabotaging," he growled. It wiped the smile right off her face. "Can't you let this one go? Can't you leave me with one thing?"

**2005 – Banff**

Waking up in bed with Michael had been a surreal experience to say the least. Though nothing untoward had happened—hell, there may as well have been a cement wall built between them for all the nervous energy the two had telegraphed to each other—just waking up with another person after a year and a half of sleeping alone in a twin bed was a shock to the system.

Her alarm shrieked that it was eight o'clock, and Nikita reached out groggily for it, her hand slamming the table edge, the lamp, and the TV remote before finding the snooze button on her cell phone. "I don't see why we have to get up so early. Don't most criminals work at night," she grumbled into her pillow. She turned her head to look for Michael, but he had already catapulted out of bed and was hastily pulling on a pair of slacks, his back to her.

That's when Nikita realized that she probably had morning breath, and she sealed her lips tighter than a vise. She sat up and hurriedly ran both hands through her hair, trying to work out any knots and smooth the fly-aways. Keeping her face to the windows, she raced down the steps into the downstairs bathroom without saying a word.

It occurred to her somewhere between her second gargle of mouthwash and applying her eyeliner that she had never bothered much with her appearance before. Being a recruit, Nikita was bathed in sweat from her training so often that wearing makeup at all in Division seemed pointless. Michael had sparred with her regardless of the fact that her hair tumbled haphazardly out of her ponytail or she didn't bother with lipstick. He'd never said a word about it. Today, somehow it mattered that he didn't see her in such a sorry state.

After a half hour, Nikita emerged to find Michael popping a fresh battery into a digital camera. "We going sightseeing?" she asked hopefully.

She wasn't surprised, however, at the response she got. "The only sights you'll be seeing are the Starlings." He looked over at her, his hand pausing over the open battery flap. He didn't say anything, just kept watching her.

"Something wrong?" she asked, one hand automatically stroking the ends of her hair.

He shook his head and closed the battery flap. "No." He handed her a camera and then checked to make sure his own turned on. "Today will be surveillance. We need to know everything we can about them before dinner tonight. I want to know what they talk about, who they meet, where they go. You never know what will be useful, so get every piece of info you can, no matter how insignificant."

"Wait. There are two cameras here, but the only pronoun I'm hearing is 'you'."

He nodded. "That's because you'll be the one following the Starlings."

"You're not coming with me?" She realized too late that it came across more disappointed fiancée than objective agent.

Michael opened his mouth like he was going to say something and then closed it. He put on his jacket and then pulled the camera strap over his neck. "You'll do just fine," he said to her finally, putting a hand on her shoulder for a second.

"I've got some other preparations to do for tonight, video and sound recordings, boring stuff like that. At least you'll get to enjoy the day, maybe have something fancy to eat for lunch? We'll meet back here at two to go over what you've learned." Seconds later, and he was out the door with only a smile for a goodbye.

* * *

Nikita stormed into the suite ten minutes after two, slamming the door behind her. Michael bolted out of his chair and came at her with a mixture of shock and anger. "What the hell are you doing? The neighbors—"

"I can't do this, Michael. I can't." She tossed the camera on the couch and paced wildly across the living room.

"What are you talking about?"

"He beats her. Edward Starling, he beats his wife."

Michael seemed genuinely surprised by the news, but moreover, he looked nervous. He knew about Nikita's foster father and the household she was forced to grow up in. This development threatened everything they had worked for on the mission. "Okay, just take a second and calm down. What did you see?"

Her furious breaths punctuated the quiet air like hastily scrawled exclamation points. "I followed them just like you said. Took hundreds of pointless photos. They were taking a walk alone along one of the trails, and Michelle, she made some stupid comment about how she wished every day could be as nice as this. And he just flew into some lunatic rant about how ungrateful she was, how no matter how much he gave her, it would never be good enough. He hit her until she stopped crying. And then they finished their walk like nothing happened, like he wasn't completely insane."

Michael took a step closer. "You didn't—" He lowered his voice a notch. "You didn't blow your cover, did you?"

Nikita stopped pacing and stared at him aghast. She ran a hand back over her bangs, her mouth hanging open. "Blow my—Jesus, Michael, that's what you care about? The man brutalizes his wife, and you're worried about our cover?"

"Get a hold of yourself, Nikita."

"No! What are we, kindergartners? That asshole's going to get away with beating his wife."

Michael tilted down his head so his eyes stared right into hers. His calm but firm voice penetrated her. "He won't get away with anything. That's why we're here. Division will destroy his whole life from the inside out."

For a moment, Nikita was struck silent, in awe of his quiet strength, but then her anxiety, her fear for Michelle returned full force. "Damnit, Michael, why do you always have to be so stoic? You act like nothing bothers you, like you've got a bulletproof vest on to protect you from the world. Emote, for God's sake. Show something—something other than perfect control."

Uncharacteristically, Michael's hand shot out and grabbed Nikita's wrist, holding her fast to him. "Do you know what the definition of power is, Nikita? It's control. When you're not in control, you're powerless. Starling? You've seen firsthand what out-of-control looks like, and what you'll soon learn is how to easily you can turn the tables on someone like him. Starling's a lesson for you, a reminder of why it's so important to understand that no matter how much something might make you want to lose control," he said, staring intensely into her eyes, "you can't ever let down your guard." He released her wrist, balling his hand into a fist. "You can't ever lose control."

He walked over to the couch and retrieved her camera. "Now take a shower, and you'll feel better. I'll be here when you get out."

Nikita stood dumbstruck for a while, vaguely aware Michael had taken a seat and began flipping through her reconnaissance photos. Reluctantly, she headed upstairs toward the shower. Michael's eyes bored into her subconscious, rending it wide like a geode. Every dark memory she had worked to lock away tumbled into the light, something to be gawked at and examined. His words vibrated under her skin, alive—questing.

Hot water scalded her skin, and the pain was wonderful. Nikita found it not only distracting but instructive. If she could control this pain, she could control all her pain—and perhaps some other emotions that had been weighing on her already overwhelmed mind.

Michael was right, she did feel better. Not only that, but she felt in control. For all of one minute.

As she emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around her middle and her skin still pink from the water's lashing, Michael crested the stairs. Like magnets, their eyes locked.

Nikita somehow felt more exposed than she ever had. Michael had seen her dozens of times in body-hugging outfits, revealing dresses, swimsuits, even in her underwear in the locker rooms. None of it had mattered; none of it felt half as invasive as this. She pulled the towel tighter around her body and let some damp tendrils of hair fall into her face.

The question now became who could get control first. Practice, Nikita, she coached herself. Find your voice.

"I'm going to wear the green dress tonight." The words came out clear and confident. Good, it was working.

Michael couldn't argue. He couldn't even speak. He nodded slowly and then swallowed.

At last, Nikita lowered her gaze and pulled the dress from the closet. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

Somehow, at some indefinable point, things had changed.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Quick heads up—another all 2005 chapter to be followed by all 2011. Also, I mingled the POVs a bit, but my reasoning will become clearer toward the end. Enjoy!

**Chapter Seven**

**2005 – Banff**

As Michael finished uploading the last of the surveillance photos, he heard the unmistakable sound of heels on hardwood. He turned around and was greeted by his impeccable partner wearing his favorite dress, not that he needed to tell her that. But it wasn't just the dress that held his attention—it was her eyes. Framed by a few errant wisps of her hair and shrouded by thick lashes, their brown depths became whirlpools, sucking him in. He couldn't look away. "You look beautiful," he said instantly.

"That's all you can muster?" she challenged. "Last night you didn't want me to wear this dress."

He gave her one of his broader smiles, his one cheek quirking up to his eye. "All right. You look really beautiful."

Nikita crossed her arms and frowned playfully. There was something shy about their exchange, less like teasing and more like flirting.

He reached down into his laptop bag and extracted a small red box. "Here," he said without ceremony. "I was saving these for the right moment."

"Honey, you shouldn't have." Nikita opened the box to find a pair of chandelier diamond earrings. Much like her ring, she couldn't even fathom what they were worth. "They're enormous."

"And they're sure to get Starling's attention." Like she needed anything more than that dress, he thought. "They're also on loan from Amanda."

"You mean I can't hock them and fly to Peru?" she joked as she screwed the backs on tightly.

Michael smiled and then turned his attention back to the computer, adding offhandedly, "You did a nice job with the recon photos."

Pride ballooned in her chest. As much as Nikita had loathed the assignment and what it had uncovered, his words were like a much-needed balm. She crossed over to the desk and leaned over his shoulder, her cheek almost pressed against his. "Find anything interesting?" she asked.

He turned her face toward her and eyed her suspiciously. It was like she was purposefully baiting him. "Actually, yes." He pulled up one photo of the Starlings on the hotel deck and tapped his finger on a bald black man in a dark blue parka whose body was mostly cut off by the camera. "This guy," he said, cycling through several more photos, "followed them too, judging by the time stamps, for at least a half hour. I've counted him in six photos throughout the morning."

"Do you think they know him?" Nikita placed a hand Michael's right shoulder, presumably for balance, her index finger sweeping lightly down the exposed skin on his neck until rested it on the collar of his black suit. If it was accidental, his body certainly didn't care. Michael stiffened but, through his extraordinary willpower, managed to keep his eyes on the screen.

He double-clicked one particular image and made it full-screen, zooming in slightly. "Look at Edward in this one."

It was one of the photos Nikita had taken when the Starlings stopped in downtown Banff for lunch at a café. Sitting only four tables away was the mystery man, again most of his figure out of frame. She followed Edward's stare. "He's looking right at him. How did I miss this?" she berated herself.

"Took me three cycles through here to catch it myself, and I've been doing recon for years," he comforted, tilting his face toward hers momentarily. He noticed her keen stare, her eyes searching back and forth across the screen.

"It's like a real life _Where's _Waldo. Go to the next photo." Edward rose from his seat. "Next one." He was gone. "Next one. Look." She removed her hand from his shoulder and pointed to where the Starlings' tail had been seated. "He's gone too." Honestly, at that moment, Michael cared less about the revelation on the computer screen than he did about the cooling imprint on his skin.

"They must have met up," she continued, "It's got to be one of his contacts. Maybe a buyer or one of his dealers."

"I sent the photo to Birkhoff, who ran it through facial recognition. His name is Zowa Botelho. He runs a blood diamond mine in Angola, one of the places Edward Starling finances by selling his illegally imported gems. More than likely it was a package trade, diamonds for money. If that's true, tonight's the night we really have to get into the fold with the Starlings. If they've made the trade already, they don't have much incentive to stay in Banff any longer."

Nikita nodded and straightened up. "Let's do this then."

Michael stood up as well, his body squarely facing her. "You sure you're ready?"

She had a flash of Edward's hand slicing through the air toward Michelle's face followed by flash of white hot rage.

"Ready as I'll ever be." Her voice didn't falter, but her gaze did.

"You do look incredible."

She pursed her lips a little, her eyes implying an unformed smile. "You have to say that. You're my fiancé." She took a few steps toward the door before stretching out her hand to him. "Come, David, you know how I love a good party."

Too late did she realize her folly. Michael's hand slid into her, his fingers questing for and then encircling her thin wrist. He held her that way for a second before shifting his grip to hold her hand properly. They walked through the door like that—like a couple—before Nikita remembered this gesture was far too intimate for them, in some ways more intimate than a kiss. A kiss could mean a lot of things, but you held hands with the one you loved. She let go halfway down the hall and wrung her hands together, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"Don't forget your cover." The way he whispered it, it didn't sound like a warning—it sounded like advice he was giving himself.

Lively jazz music greeted them in the bustling lobby, the distant, effervescent toots of trumpets beckoning them forward with promises of free-spirited fun. Nikita offered her date a nervous smile which he returned with an assured one of his own.

The excited bark of trombones led them into the spacious Van Horne Ballroom that had been bedecked with festive gold streamers, giant music note cut-outs, and elegantly draped curtains. At the center of the room, a massive stage crowded with about twenty musicians garnered everyone's attention. Brass instruments of every type glinted in the soft lighting as the musicians swayed rhythmically in time with the cheerful melody. A few adventurous couples twirled about the dance floor, one young pair courageous enough to go aerial. The hotel had taken great pains to resurrect the glamour of the Big Band Era and succeeded. The guests were enthralled.

Unmoved by the elegance of the room, Michael searched the attendees until he found the Starlings seated at a table on the perimeter of the room. Michelle looked longingly at the dancers; Edward looked with irritation at his watch.

As Michael guided Nikita toward their targets' table, Edward perked up and enthusiastically waved them over. "Pleasure to see you again so soon, David," he said, shaking Michael's hand heartily. "Jane, you look ravishing." Judging from his hungry stare, it wasn't quite the word he was thinking, but Nikita thanked him anyway. He raised her ring hand and kissed it, his eyes sizing up the diamond much the same way as they had roved over her body. She thought about cold-cocking him while his head was down but figured Division probably order instant cancellation and decided against it.

Instead, she greeted Michelle warmly, all the while checking her over for bruises. She found none, but considering the amount of makeup the woman had plastered on, it wasn't much of a surprise. Nikita felt her heart rate quicken but hurried to check it. She remembered Michael's lesson on control, and if she was going to survive this night, it was a tool she'd have to master.

It took only a few minutes before Edward snatched up the bait. "New earrings, Jane?"

"David surprised me just before we came down. I tried to warn him that if he keeps spoiling me like this, I'll get used to it and then the only things I'll have to wear are diamonds."

"She says this like that's something I wouldn't want," Michael confessed with a touch of heat in his voice. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed her body flush against his.

"David, company," Nikita scolded. He smiled teasingly at her and then released her.

Michelle sighed wistfully. "Young love."

Edward's gaze was much more shrewd. "Perhaps the ladies can chat for a while. If you don't mind, Jane," he coaxed, "I'd like to talk a little business with your fiancé."

"Of course."

It was the opening Michael had hoped for, and he steered Edward toward one of the audio hotspots he'd planted earlier that afternoon. Putting on his best puzzled countenance, Michael spread his legs and crossed his arms loosely. "What sort of business are we talking about?"

"A cut-to-the-chase kind of guy, I like that." Edward nodded approvingly. "I'll be honest, David. I appreciate a man who invests in diamonds. It shows intelligence and savvy, two traits I value highly in my field of expertise."

"Really, and what is it you do?"

"I suppose you could say I'm an entrepreneur."

Michael dropped his hands to his hips, a deliberate signal to Edward that he was intrigued. "An entrepreneur? Hard line of work these days, but you seem to be doing well for yourself."

"And you can be too. It's obvious you make smart choices. You're wealthy, well-educated, and you're marrying the flawless Jane. I can help you keep her happy. Together we can make it so she wants for nothing. You'd do anything for her, right?"

Michael looked past the smooth-talking smuggler to Nikita. She was laughing with Michelle and drinking wine as they watched the swing dancers gyrate around one another. He swore her skin sparkled in the dim light. She caught him looking at her, and she smiled with an extra little flourish of a raised eyebrow. Always baiting him. If he were really David and she Jane, he wouldn't hesitate. With absolute conviction, he said, "Anything."

Edward's grin was slicked with oil, like some shyster used car salesman, and he clasped both hands together triumphantly. "I knew it, smart. I checked you out, David."

"You did?" Michael feigned surprise, but he knew that of course. Birkhoff had flagged any searches of David Moorefield's paper trail and reported the activity that morning.

The smuggler intensified his stare. "Almost from the moment I met you, I knew you had potential. You're a hedge fund manager, so you know a good investment when you see one. I deal in gemstones. Diamonds mostly, some rubies and emeralds. It's a growing business, but I want to grow even larger. You can help me do that."

As the men delved further into their business deal, the tempo of the music switched from upbeat swing to soulful slow jazz. Some of the swing dancers left the floor and more timid couples took advantage. Michelle perked up, a delighted grin fluttering across her face. "Ah, this is one of my favorites. The Duke, do you know him?"

Nikita offered an embarrassed smile. "I'm hopeless with jazz."

"Oh, he's wonderful. But this song gets me every time. Go dance with your sweetie. You really need a partner to enjoy this."

"I shouldn't interrupt them, and besides, I don't want to leave such entertaining company."

"Nonsense," she proclaimed. "You've got your whole life for him to avoid dancing with you. May as well seize your youth." Michelle literally pushed Nikita toward Michael, a sort of motherly nudge that gave her a pang when she remembered the tyrant she lived with. If nothing else, the woman's bravery at disrupting her husband's business transactions fortified Nikita's dedication to giving Michelle anything to make her a bit happier.

Nikita strolled over to the two men and gave her most disarming smile. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I've got to steal my fiancé for a dance. It is a party after all."

Edward looked every bit as affronted as Nikita had feared, but it was Michael's dumbstruck face that really made her second guess her intrusion. Still, she persevered, holding out her hand to him. Michael apologized but knew he couldn't say no to her offer; it wasn't what young lovers did.

The dulcet tones of the band's lead singer swelled through the cavernous room in perfect accompaniment to the instruments. It had a nostalgic sort of melody, if a bit haunting, and Nikita realized Michelle had been right—it was exactly the sort of song that demanded a partner.

Michael followed her out onto the dance floor, his arm naturally looping around her waist and his left hand firmly grasping hers. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

Nikita rolled her eyes. "Relax. It's one dance. Starling's not going to end the deal just because you danced with your fiancée. What are you really worried about, that everyone will see I'm the better dancer?"

Oh, she was good, he thought. How easily she could manipulate a conversation, make him forget his anger and entice him all at once. "Hardly."

As they danced, Nikita surveyed the room. Many of the women wore sophisticated gowns dripping as much with class as with sequins. She frowned slightly. She had chosen the green dress deliberately to take some control away from Michael and regain some for herself, but now she worried that in comparison to the women in this room, she wasn't so glamorous after all. It shouldn't have mattered, but dancing center stage with Michael, it did. "I feel underdressed."

He averted his eyes from her but said, "I wouldn't worry about it. There isn't a woman in here that doesn't wish she looked like you tonight." A faint smile illuminated her face.

They swayed gently for a few moments while Nikita glanced up and down her partner's powerful frame. "I see you had to go through Amanda's dance lessons too."

A slight nod of concession. "I did, though I haven't practiced in a long time. How am I doing?"

She cocked her head to the side, appraising him. "You could stand a few rehearsals."

"That so?" Suddenly, Michael opened his stance, allowing her to unwind gracefully to the end of his reach. When she came reeling back in, he slipped one arm under her shoulders, his other hand cradling her head as he dipped her sideways across his body. In surprise, her hands gripped his shoulders, bringing his face down to her glistening skin. She awarded him a half-bewildered, half-amused smile. "Better?" he dared.

"Much."

As Michael gradually lifted her back up, the tip of his nose brushed along her neck to her jaw. Her perfume, unidentifiable and exhilarating, bewitched him. Its intoxicating tendrils unfurled deep in his brain, awakening parts of him he had forgotten existed. By the time she was back on her own two feet, Michael's lips were so close, she could smell the mint of his toothpaste.

He put one hand on her cheek, and without thinking, without saying a word, drew her mouth to his. His bottom lip captured hers and pulled it in, taking his first taste of her. It wasn't just the wine that he noted, it was the underlying essence of Nikita—warm, inviting, and deeply forbidden. His mouth shifted positions so he could sample more of her complexities, and his other hand slid up her body to caress the nape of her neck. She moaned into his mouth at the sensuous touch, and it was enough to bring reality crashing down around him.

The song faded out with a few melancholic wails from the trumpets, and there was a rousing round of applause from around the room. It hadn't really occurred to Michael in the last few minutes that there were others present.

He pulled back from Nikita, their eyes meeting—hers clouded with confusion and his smoky from his abruptly extinguished flare of lust. He opened his mouth to say something but then walked out of the ballroom suddenly, leaving the silence between them hanging thick as velvet drapes.

Not knowing what else to do, Nikita walked back dazedly toward Edward—wait, she had legs? She couldn't feel them anymore, couldn't even feel the 4-inch stilettos that had been torturing her feet all night. She felt drunk but with the benefit of equilibrium.

When she reached him, she smiled apologetically. "David will be back in just a few minutes." Her words flowed out from a well of inner strength she hadn't charted. Or maybe it was just Amanda's rigorous charm school training.

Nikita returned to Michelle's side at the table, sitting down and staring straight ahead without focus. "Didn't I promise you Duke was amazing? Have you two taken dance lessons already for your wedding? You are marvelous dancers."

Her companion rambled on, but she didn't hear much. While her body filled the seat, her mind was still gliding across the dance floor in the arms of a beautiful lie.

**2005 - Division**

Three very different faces were illuminated by the softly humming TV monitors stationed around the room; the one thing they had in common was astonishment as they watched the dance between Nikita and Michael progress.

"Woah," Birkhoff observed with two very raised eyebrows. "That is some deep, deep cover."

Amanda's arms were ratcheted firmly across her chest. "I told you not to send her."

Percy exhaled tightly. "It was Michael's decision."

"I can see why," Birkhoff mumbled through a swig of Red Bull. "Attila the Hun would have bowed before her in that dress."

"What are we going to do about this?" Amanda said in such a way that made it abundantly clear it was both a question and a demand.

Percy paused, watching as Michael broke the kiss and stormed out of the room. The corner of his mouth curled up in the vaguest ghost of a smile. "Michael knows his role. He's smart enough to know where that road ends."

**A/N:** One last thing here so I could avoid spoilers. I didn't want to belittle the story by turning it into a flagrant songfic, but if you're interested, the song Nikita and Michael slow-danced to is called "In My Solitude" by Duke Ellington. Lots of brilliant versions of it out there on YouTube (particularly Billie Holiday's). I'll make you one promise though: it'll sink right into your soul—truly mesmerizing. There's something inherently classy and romantic about Big Band. After listening, you'll have better idea of what our pair is truly up against. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N**: Two chapters left after this. :(

**Chapter Eight**

**2011 - Banff**

Alex sat across from Owen, her stare never wavering. He was handsome in that rugged, dangerous sort of way, the kind of man her papa had always warned her to stay away from. If he only knew about the droves of them that influenced her existence on a daily basis.

Life outside Division walls had gone to hell so fast, it was a wonder she hadn't been shot or stabbed or cancelled already. And now she was holding Nikita's other accomplice hostage, unable to tell him who she really was and unable to disobey Michael's direct orders. Her new world was a perpetual Catch-22.

Owen stared back at her with perfect composure, a classic stalemate.

At last he offered Alex a surprising, but still irritating, grin. "Listen, doe eyes, we need to have a discussion."

Alex narrowed her doe eyes in a challenge. "I think I should let my Beretta do the talking."

Owen didn't even blink. "We both know you're not going to shoot me."

"Do we?" Alex shifted in her seat, trying to gain a more aggressive stance. The gun felt heavy, and the grip was slick from her sweaty palms, but her face was all business "And how do we know that?"

"I was a cleaner for years. I can tell the ones who don't have the stomach for it."

Alex couldn't decide if she was more unnerved or relieved by the fact that someone else out there believed she wasn't a cold-blooded killer at heart—at first glance, no less. Division had spent months trying to convince her she had a deep-seated bloodlust, but here was someone who had tasted the darkest side of their already shadowy existence telling her irrefutably that she wasn't like him.

Not that any of this changed their situation. She still had a loaded gun trained on him with orders to shoot if he moved. "You know I had to kill someone to become an agent."

Owen shrugged. "My guess is your kill was incidental. Looking someone right in the face as you take their life, now that's not really your style, not with big sweet eyes like yours."

Alex jabbed the barrel into his right knee harder than necessary. How did Nikita work with this guy? He was so… so something she couldn't put her finger on. His brash manners combined with his impulsive attitude provoked her and intrigued her at the same time. Is this what all cleaners were like? "Maybe, but kneecaps are a far cry from murder. I think I could look you in the eyes and still live with myself."

Owen laughed. "Somebody taught you well."

Her eyebrows pinched together in confusion. Was that a veiled reference to Nikita? Had her mentor told him she was the mole?

"Look, you can tell them I knocked the gun out of her hands. No harm, no foul." He slid back slowly in his chair, his arms sinking down by his sides.

"Keep your hands where I can see them." Her voice hardened with the razor edge of menace. "It's awfully dark under there, and I can't see where I'm aiming. I could end up shooting you in the groin."

He stopped cold, eyeing her with the tiniest bit of amusement. "You remind me of someone I know, which is why I'm really going to regret this."

Owen's foot shot out, perfectly targeted for the front leg of Alex's chair. He pushed it back forcefully, tipping her over into an ungraceful heap. Her gun skidded under the empty table behind her, lost in complete blackness. She twisted awkwardly out of the chair, but Owen was already at the exit. He waved brightly, giving her another arrogant grin, and yelled, "Sorry about the dine and dash."

Behind her, she heard the sharp explosion of glass as Andrew dropped the tray he was carrying in favor of chasing after Owen. Alex released a frustrated sigh and dove for her gun, concealing it as best as possible in her handbag before following after them.

She glanced back at Oksana and her guest and noticed they had risen from their seats. The man with the scar had slipped his hand behind his back, more than likely reaching for a weapon. Damn, they had spooked them. Alex had no idea what to do, which mission should she follow. Neither Nikita nor Division had left her with an instruction manual for this—probably because no one had written The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being a Double Agent.

With a scowl, she ran out of the restaurant and waited around the corner, letting the pendulum in her heart swing between her responsibilities. In the end, Alex made a choice that was all her own.

* * *

Michael rested his gun at the opposite edge of the conference table from Nikita and sank into one of the surrounding chairs. With her, it was mostly just for show anyway. They both knew he could never kill her. "Why'd you have to come?" he sighed.

"Don't do that. You don't get to make this all about you," she snapped. "There's more at stake than your feelings. Or mine."

"Like your precious mission?" he scoffed. "You get so high-and-mighty about me following Division's orders, completing ops without asking questions. What about you? Your life is one big mission you have to complete, and you act like your damn-the-consequences frontal assault is any different from what we do."

Nikita took the seat adjacent to him and leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "We aren't who we were the last time we were here."

He looked away.

"So what now, Michael? You going to handcuff me, toss me over your shoulder and deliver me to Percy with a bow? Or are you going to let me go like you always do so we can do this same old charade all over again?"

"I'll let you know when I decide."

Nikita stood up, running a hand back through her hair before she smiled coyly. "You know there's really only one thing to do."

"What's that?" Despite her, despite himself, Michael was intrigued, maybe even a little excited. He watched her lithe body patrol the length of the room, her fierce legs devouring the floor with every powerful step, the hem of her dress riding a little higher each time. Okay, he was definitely excited.

"We resolve this right here, right now. No interference, no allies, no weapons but the ones we were born with."

"Nikita," he said, slowly rising from his seat, "you have no idea what you're proposing."

"Don't I?"

She faced him, her fist lashing out like a serpent straight for his cheek. Michael blocked it at the last second and returned it with a right hook of his own. Nikita dodged it and landed two successive slams into his abdomen and then a hook to his chin. She relished his guttural grunt—it was primitive, dangerous, and utterly maddening. But Michael was quick to recover. He looked up with a wide smile, his perfect teeth catching the light. He ran his tongue over them. For some reason, it made her want to purr.

He dove straight at her, driving her back into one of the chairs. Immediately, he forced his hands down onto her wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair. He jammed his right leg between hers for leverage, his knee pressing into that tender, outlawed region of her inner thigh. Each strangled breath she made came out with a tantalizing little moan, and Michael slid his knee a little farther up. His reward was her gasp. "Admit it, you love this," he grunted.

"You want me to admit that, you'll have to do a little better than this." She stretched out her leg, finding the edge of the conference table, and shoved back with all her strength. The chair toppled backward, taking both of them with it. Michael landed hard on his back, and Nikita flipped over effortlessly so she was straddling him. "Now this I love." She looked down at him, her long hair shading much of her face. Her grin was absolutely wicked.

Michael bucked his pelvis underneath hers, her grin melting to surprise, and Nikita automatically tensed. It was all the opening he needed. He raised his left arm and leg to shift her balance and pushed, tossing her off of him. He kipped up as she struggled back to her feet in her heels.

Now both on their feet, Nikita furrowed her brow. "That was a dirty trick."

"All's fair, right?" he countered.

He launched another assault from his fists, landing one blow to her ribs. She double-over briefly but regained her balance. She grabbed his shoulders and brought a knee to his stomach, then released to finish him with a spin kick. Trouble was Michael recovered too quickly, and he caught her backwards mid-spin. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his hot breath penetrating her mane of hair. Her skin bristled at his heat. He held her immobile for a moment, his right arm wrapped around her tensed stomach, but his left tracing up her arm to the back of her neck, their twisted version of an embrace.

Nikita's pelvis bumped the edge of the table, and then Michael used his leverage at her neck to force her to bend over it. Her hands slammed against the cold wood, beads of condensation instantly forming under her palms. Both of them panted heavily, their hearts thrashing against their ribs like feral animals in cages. Michael's hip dug into hers, and Nikita couldn't stop her breath from hitching.

He lowered his face down to hers, perhaps to taunt her, but he never got the chance. Her hand snapped back to grab his tie, and she pulled his face right down onto the table with a thump. There might have been a nicer way to escape, but Nikita knew theirs was a no-holds-barred kind of relationship. He'd forgive her for the lump. She squeezed out from under him and took several steps back to catch her breath—she could still feel his body bearing down on hers, his chest straining at her back as he gasped for air.

Michael pushed up from the table and staggered back, shaking his head. His face was scarlet with rage, his nostrils flaring like a bull's. He charged at her, but he was still weak from the blow to the head and his aim faltered. He stumbled into her, and she folded her arms around him. He pushed her back into a counter, knocking over two coffee mugs.

When Michael looked up at her, some of the fury had abated and in its place was exhaustion, not from the fight—Nikita knew he had always had more stamina than she—but from their carousel relationship. Always going round and round but ending up where they started.

She slipped her hands into the waist of his pants and shoved him back against the wall. His eyes were soft, his hands were not. They gripped her triceps hungrily, his thumbs roughly stroking her biceps. "You shouldn't have left."

"Division took everything from me, Michael," she said forcefully.

The effect was sobering. He stared over her shoulder, his jaw tightening. After a moment, his eyes returned to hers, searching for something in their depths to urge him on. "Everything? So there was no other reason to stay."

"Like you'd ever give me a reason. Always so in control."

"Not always," Michael reminded. "I thought I had. Here."

Nikita shook her head. "Six years ago? The whole time you're telling me 'it's just a cover,' 'don't forget your cover,' 'we're doing this for our cover.' And I'm supposed to know what's real and what's not?"

His arm wrapped around her and pulled her closer to him. His eyes never left hers. At some point, their breathing had synchronized. "It was real for me," he confessed.

The door handle suddenly rattled, and they shot apart like they'd just been electrified. "You set me up," Nikita said with astonishment. Instantly, she was back in a defensive position, her weight resting on her back leg, her hands knotted into fists. "I want you to know, I won't make it easy on them."

"I didn't—" But any protest he made was cut short by the door swinging open.

"Finally," Owen crowed. "We've got to go. Now."

Nikita looked in shock at Owen and then back at Michael, who was still up against the wall with his arms flat against his side. In his bewilderment, he couldn't even form an angry scowl. He watched helplessly as Nikita slipped from his grasp yet again.

"Come on, Nikita!" Owen beckoned, waving her toward him. "There are agents right behind me."

Her gaze landed on Michael's gun at the edge of the table, and it made the decision for her. She ran toward Owen, her fingers snagging the weapon. She held it aloft as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Michael. I thought we were finally getting somewhere, but we're out of time as usual. I'll see you around," she promised before she darted through the door with Owen following.

Moments later, an out-of-breath Andrew stopped in the door frame. "You're too late," Michael said, tucking in an errant corner of his shirt and tightening his tie. "She's gone."

Andrew hung his head. "You almost had her."

No truer words, he thought.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N**: Thanks for over 100 reviews, folks! While certainly unexpected, I'm really grateful that you're all having fun along with me. Long chapter here, eight and a half pages without line breaks by Word's count. I hope it lives up to the hype. Just remember, everybody, you're reading a rated T fic. _Nikita_ is on the CW after all. It's just… a little more detailed. ;)

**Chapter Nine**

**2011 – Banff**

As soon as Nikita closed the room to the suite, she sagged against it. Her body was tired, her mind was tired, her heart was tired. But there was still so much left to do. She raced upstairs to change into a pair of jeans and modest boots and then charged back down into the living room, extracting bags from hiding spots and tossing them haphazardly on the floor.

Owen watched with a furrowed brow. "Did I miss something here?"

"They'll find the room soon," she explained, wrapping up a cord from her homemade security system. "We need to move."

"But what about—"

Abruptly, Nikita dropped the cord and glanced up at her companion. "How'd you escape, Owen?" Images of Alex alone with this human weapon bombarded her mind. Worry blossomed in the pit of her stomach, its bitter roots piercing her heart.

"Take it easy," he warned nervously as she turned her paralyzing stare to him. "I didn't hurt your mole. I caught her off-guard, gave her the perfect excuse."

"My what?" Nikita raised both eyebrows.

"Oh, come on. I may look like a meathead, but I'm not one. Simple process of elimination: it was either her or Michael."

"Fine," Nikita grunted, stuffing several cartridges of ammo in a duffel bag. "Then how'd you find us?"

"Honestly? I broke open about five other doors first," he admitted sheepishly, "before I heard fighting in the conference room."

"What happened to Oksana?"

"Don't know, but I'd wager she's on to us. I had to make a bit of scene to get out of there in one piece."

"Damn. That means she'll be leaving as soon as possible."

Owen shrugged. "That's good, right? Division can't get to her if disappears."

"True, but it also means we can't."

"Do we need to?"

"I've been thinking," Nikita began, "Percy wouldn't have sent his best agent all the way up here if it wasn't for something important, not simply to even a score. And seeing that guy with the scar makes me wonder what Gogol's really up to. It's not just revenge Percy's looking for, it's something more sinister."

Owen paced around her, handing her a phone charger and several other weapons. "So we go after Oksana, make her talk?"

"We need intel," Nikita said, flicking her thumbnail against her teeth.

She scrambled over to her laptop and loaded the shell program. No need to be surreptitious about it anymore. "Can you talk?" she typed.

Thankfully after a minute, encrypted text scrolled across the screen. "Yes. Are you safe?"

"For now. Owen knows." Nikita didn't need to type about what. "Where are you?"

"Followed Oksana after moron blew our cover."

Nikita looked pointedly at Owen, who was reading over her shoulder. There were deep creases in his forehead from his frown. "You've already got a nickname. Appears you've made an impression," Nikita teased.

"Only after her gun left one in my knee," he griped.

More text on the screen. Alex added, "I hear lots of commotion. Pretty sure she's packing."

"Which room?"

"610."

"Nice work," Nikita typed. "Regroup with your team so they don't wonder where you are. My cell will be on. Let me know if there are any developments."

Nikita closed the computer and then packed it away. There was no time to lose. She grabbed everything else essential and had it packed in two bags in less than five minutes. Division had taught her to manage her life in neat, tiny parcels that could be removed at the first sign of trouble, and now she would use the lessons against them. The clothes and the sundries that she had scattered upstairs would be left behind, more casualties in her war with beast that was Division.

She tucked a gun in the back of her pants and motioned toward one of the duffel bags. "Take that one. We'll stash these on our way to Oksana's room." She looked at Owen with a breathless smiled and added, "Let's rock and roll."

Along the way to Room 610, they found a space behind an ice machine to hide the bags. Nikita peered down the hallway both ways, and when it was all clear, she tilted her head toward Oksana's suite, her silent signal to move out.

From there, it only took that one second for things to go to hell.

* * *

As she entered the suite that had been their headquarters, Alex could practically see the steam rising from Michael's forehead as he stewed in a chair behind the desk. His breathing was audible, each exhalation a stiff punch that pummeled the air like it was a speedbag. She didn't ask what was wrong. A whole minute elapsed before he even acknowledged she was in the room, and even then, it was just a curt nod.

Alex spoke first, her voice hesitating. "I tried to follow Nodova, but I lost her down one of the halls."

When his eyes turned to her, she was relieved to find that whatever anger and disappointment he had been feeling transmuted into something that looked suspiciously like pride. "That was smart work, agent, following the target instead of following Andrew."

Alex glanced out the window into the dark fabric of night. "Yeah, but I lost her, and I let Nikita's partner get away."

Michael offered her a slight smile. "You're still a rookie. Don't beat yourself up just yet. We may have one more opportunity to complete the mission."

"But she's onto us," she stammered. "She's probably getting ready to leave right now."

"Which is exactly how we'll get her. Her panic will make her vulnerable."

Michael extracted his cell phone and pushed one of his speed dial buttons. Birkhoff answered on the second ring. "This had better be good news, man," the networks specialist warned.

"I need you to run Oksana Nodova's known aliases against the hotel's guestbook, see if you can find which room she's in."

"No dice, remember? The only intel we got about her arrival was secondhand through one of the Gogol agents Amanda interrogated." Michael heard the strain in Birkhoff's voice as he remembered what the woman was capable of. "Whatever alias she used is brand new."

"Damn." Then an idea came to Michael. "Pull up the hotel surveillance footage around 6:30 yesterday. Oksana would have checked in then. You can cross-check the guest logs with the timestamp on the video."

"So you actually do listen when I talk. I'm touched," Birkhoff observed. Michael rolled his eyes. "Got it. Natalie Henderson, Room 610."

Adrenalin flooded Michael's body. He was energized by a small victory that had eluded him since his arrival in Banff. "Suit up," he told Alex. "That next opportunity I mentioned is happening right now. Get any agent that's conscious, and let's move out."

There was nothing Alex could do but nod and run into the other room to change. She wanted to call Nikita, but there was no time. She just hoped her friend would get to Oksana before Division did.

* * *

Oksana was closing the door behind her when she spotted Nikita and Owen. Their eyes met, and the blonde woman blinked. "Nikita?" she gasped, her voice permeated with the Russian accent she'd worked so hard to disguise in her time at Division.

"Nikita!"

"I feel like a celebrity," the rogue agent noted, glancing over her shoulder to see Michael with his Walther P22 pointed directly at her chest. "But without the star treatment."

"Drop your weapon and walk towards me," he commanded.

"Now, Michael, you're not seriously going to start a firefight in a hotel. I just want to talk to Oksana."

"No more talking. All of you are coming with us." He motioned over his shoulder to the three agents, including Alex, staked out around the hall corner.

Oksana clutched her bag close to her chest and took off full speed for the staircase at the end of the hallway. "I guess not," Nikita commented with the raise of one perfect eyebrow. "Hate to leave my fans wanting for more, but my limo's waiting." She glanced to Owen, who pulled a pin out of the smoke grenade he was holding and tossed it at the agents.

Just before noxious smoke engulfed the hallway, Alex caught Owen's apologetic grin and Nikita's casual wave goodbye. Seconds later, fire alarms pierced the mountain quiet, and a shower of cold water drenched the Division team. "Damn," Michael cursed, plunging into the hazy fray. "Follow me."

Nikita and Owen were about two floors ahead of them on the stairs, but it was getting harder to keep up as more and more guests spilled into the stairwell, many of them lazily making their way from what they were sure was a false alarm.

Michael bumped into a several people as he raced down two steps at a time. "Where's the fire, buddy?" some guy joked until he caught sight of Michael's unholstered pistol.

Panic escalated amongst the guests as the rumor of armed men trickled telephone-style through crowd. There was more jostling, and Alex fell behind. Muttering to herself, she shoved people out of her way in a desperate attempt to keep up. Her mind roiled with the thoughts of what would happen to Nikita if the other agents got to her before she did.

On the first floor now, Nikita spotted the platinum blonde disappearing through an exit at the end of the hall. She grabbed Owen by the arm and said, "We've got to split up. Just make sure you keep an eye on me and cover me if need be." He nodded and fell back as Nikita charged after her target, gun now drawn.

The door opened onto a non-descript cement walkway that curved around the building. Not far below down the rolling hill were the tennis courts. Though the sky was black, the spotlights on the courts caught the glimmer of Oksana's hair, and Nikita pursued her full throttle. She was damn glad she had on a good pair of boots—even through their thick soles, her feet took a pounding from the rough Canadian landscape.

Oksana was not so lucky. She hadn't anticipated a strenuous hike through the wilderness, and she was rapidly losing steam. As Nikita gained on her, she kept her eyes out for Division and a very determined Michael. She couldn't see Owen, but she hoped he was close by as instructed.

Up ahead, Oksana stopped and stared downward. Nikita eased up behind her, approaching close enough to see the terrain had dropped off suddenly at least fifteen feet. The blonde leaned a bit over the ledge, weighing her options.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Nikita warned. "Don't think you have right shoes for a safe landing." She glanced down at her foe's feet still wearing a pair of red kitten heels.

"Oksana, I don't want to hurt you. I just want to talk." Nikita raised her gun to the side to show her she meant it.

The Gogol operative turned around slowly, her hands still grasping her bag protectively. Her compact frame was heaving from the impromptu exercise, and her toothpick legs braced against the loose rock, one foot sliding back deliberately to the edge of the precipice. What little light from the hotel that thrust its way through the trees glinted off a silver chain around her neck. "Shouldn't you be calling me Helina?" she retorted.

"You know, I always kind of liked you," Nikita admitted, lowering her weapon to the side but not removing her finger from the trigger guard. "It was never my intention to expose you."

Oksana shrugged. "No hard feelings, of course. I hear you've gone rogue. You ought to consider joining Gogol, so your talents don't go to waste."

Nikita smirked. "I don't think they are. While I appreciate the offer, it's already been made. And declined."

"Pity. I always kind of liked you too."

"Great. Now that we've got a rapport going, you want to tell me who that man was you were having dinner with? He's must be the reason Division wants you dead. Well, more than the usual reasons anyway."

Oksana twisted her head to the side, letting the dim luminescence fall across the valleys under her cheek bones. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Let's just say he gave you an excellent reason to switch sides before it's too late. You know, in Russia, we have a saying that reminds me of you, Nikki. 'One who sits between two chairs may easily fall down.' But I suppose you already knew that."

Nikita started to ask what the woman meant by that when a bullet whizzed by her ear, slamming into a nearby tree trunk and splintering the wood. She whirled around and found Michael walking steadily toward her, his gun now armed with a silencer. In turn, she raised her own weapon, training it on him for what felt like the umpteenth time today. She glanced to his right and left and caught the glint of two other muzzles, but not the third. Nikita couldn't tell if Alex was out there or not.

"Look, guys, I don't want to hurt you."

"Is she serious?" a male voice asked disbelievingly from the shadows.

Michael couldn't help his smile. Same old Nikita. "Very," he replied.

"So if you back off now, everybody wins. I get to talk to Oksana, and you get to keep all your extremities."

Michael lined the pistol's sights right with her face, highlighting the devil-may-care grin playing across her lips. "I don't think you're in any—"

Bullets rained down upon the Division team from an unseen assailant, peppering trees, rocks, and dirt—everything but the actual people. Nikita shrugged. "Told you." Maybe when this was all over, she would have to appreciate Owen a little more. The agents ducked and scurried away, taking safety behind whatever object their environment volunteered.

Oksana seized the opportunity and leaped from the ledge. Nikita peered down to find the Russian spy on one knee, doubled-over. Obviously winded and injured, she managed to stand and then limp hurriedly toward an unpaved service road ahead of her. She pulled a phone out of her bag and made a call, probably for extraction.

"Oh, come on!" Nikita huffed. She glanced behind her, catching Michael's attention. He was crouched behind a tree, but his eyes were fixed firmly on her. He shook his head, but Nikita just winked. With the help of Owen's suppressive fire, she was able to jump over the edge and roll when she hit the bottom without interference. Pain shot up her legs in little fiery rockets that made her teeth chatter with the shock, but she powered through it and was relieved when realized nothing had been broken.

She tracked Oksana to the road, but she two seconds too late. A white Mercedes skidded to a stop, scattering brown snow across Nikita's jeans. The driver's side window rolled down, a pistol barrel leveling at her chest through the gap.

"Thanks for saving my life, Nikki," Oksana said breezily as she dipped into the waiting car. "Ari would have killed me if I didn't come home with one of Percy's black boxes." She reached back into that bottomless shoulder bag and brandished the ebony rectangle out the window.

Well, hell.

"Let's chat again, da?" She gave a cheery wave before disappearing behind tinted glass.

Her bodyguard fired two successive bullets at Nikita's feet, forcing her to jump back while the tires screeched for traction against the ice and stone. Moments later, the sedan accelerated away into the black abyss of the mountains.

Sobered, Nikita ventured a look behind her. Michael loomed on the edge of the cliff. Either Owen had run out of bullets, or he had high-tailed it back to the hotel; he was too wily to be caught by a bunch of rookie agents. Michael was too far in the distance to see his face clearly, but she could guess what he was feeling. Disappointment in her, disappointment in himself, frustration at life in general. With the black box in Gogol's hands, Division would be destroyed, but not without taking down the nation that sanctioned the clandestine organization. She should have let it go.

**2005 – Banff**

The band was dying down, the final few notes of their last song reverberating in Nikita's chest. She looked over at her companion and offered a weak smile. Michelle Starling raised her wine glass and downed the last mouthful. "What a wonderful night," she observed, fingering some gold confetti on the table.

Nikita peeked at Michael. He had returned to the ballroom ten minutes after their kiss, looking just as composed and focused as he ever had. He rejoined Edward straight away and had spent the last hour talking with him, not casting even one glance her way. Where at first she had been nervous to see him again, offense had taken up residence in her heart. You can't just kiss a woman like that and walk away like it never happened, she growled inwardly as she finished her own wine. She was determined to make him pay when they got back to the room.

"Thank you for spending the evening with me, Jane," Michelle offered. "Usually when we go to these types of things, my husband spends his time on the sidelines chatting with strangers about finances or soccer or whatever else men talk about. It was nice to have a friend tonight."

Nikita's eyes softened, and she rested a hand on Michelle's wrist. "I really wish the best for you, Michelle."

"Seems our women have become fast friends," Edward boasted as he sauntered over to their table at last. "Which is great news considering David has decided to go into business with me. We'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

Michelle clapped her hands together. "That's wonderful news."

Nikita could only muster a solemn nod as Michael's hard gaze fell to her at last.

"If we had any more wine, I'd propose a toast," Edward said with the slightest note of irritation.

"It's fine," Nikita protested. "I'm a little tipsy from it anyway. I should probably get back to the room and lie down."

Reluctantly, the Starlings released them from any further obligations for the evening, but not before Edward gave Michael's hand a mighty shake. "We'll do incredible things together, David," he assured.

"Looking forward to it," was Michael's ominous reply.

He took Nikita's arm in his and led her out of the ballroom. It wasn't until they reached their floor that he found his voice again. "We're in. Starling's arranged for me to meet a few of the other investors next week and hash out details. In a few days time, we'll have the names of most of his providers along with shipping routes and times, cutting locations, mining facilities, dealers—everything we need to dismantle his life. This is way ahead of schedule."

"We're just that good together," Nikita noted with a weak smile.

"I really could not have done it without you."

"Definitely true," she gloated, feeling more herself the closer she got to the room. "But I guess you won't be needing Jane anymore."

Michael nodded slowly. "It'll just be business meetings from here on until I open up the heart of the organization. After tomorrow, you're free and clear to be Nikita again. On the bright side, you won't be saddled with me for a while."

"That's the best news I've heard all night," she teased as she opened the front door. "Planning on coming in?" she added when he didn't follow her inside.

"You seem eager to get home," he observed as he tossed his suit jacket over the back of the sofa.

"Missions are draining." That was all she offered, and she promised herself that was all she would offer. "Anyway, I think I'll turn in."

She hadn't taken three steps before Michael blurted, "Listen, Nikita, about that kiss."

She stopped. Not this, she thought. Please don't bring it up. She had to get control of this now, or she would be stuck with a life of constantly reading into things that meant nothing more than her cover would allow. Without turning around, she waved him off and walked up the steps. "Part of our cover, I get it, Michael. You said we might have to do some pretty uncomfortable things, and that was one of them. But it's over now. Don't worry, I promise I won't follow you around like a lost puppy when we get back to Division. This is the last night I'll be Jane," she affirmed.

When Michael didn't respond, Nikita looked down from the loft and found him staring intensely up at her from below. Her hands gripped the railing for support. She couldn't turn away, not even if she wanted to—and she didn't want to. There was a warm whooshing between her ears that sounded suspiciously like her own heartbeat. She waited with quickening breaths as he kept his eyes glued to hers, taking one step at a time.

He crested the stairs and approached her with hungry resolve lighting his eyes. He came up behind her and rested his left hand on her shoulder. But it was the right one she with which she concerned herself. His fingers gripped the zipper of the dress and eased it down, the meat of his thumb tracing her spine through the open rift between the teeth. There was no tender romance set to gentle music—this was quiet, unadulterated desire.

Michael spun her around so she had to face him, her left arm pressed against her chest chastely holding up her dress. He stared at her for a moment and then grabbed her by both shoulders, pulling her in for a kiss. Where their first kiss had been explorative and curious, this was nothing but white hot lust. Michael wasted no time. He grabbed her lower lip with his teeth and bit it teasingly before running his tongue over it. The pressure was wonderful, sending tingles through her body. Nikita's right hand reached up to massage his neck and rake through his soft hair.

As their kiss deepened, becoming more and more fervent, Michael dragged one hand up her silhouette, his fingers coming to rest on her left arm. He gently guided her hand down, and without her support, the green dress didn't stand a chance. It crumpled around her feet, a fitting end to the dress that had driven him mad.

With nothing now between them, Michael had free access to all the Nikita he wanted—and he wanted all of her. He started with her waist, greedily kneading and stroking the delicate skin, always, always pressing her closer to him. His mouth shifted to her neck, and his lips latched on to the tender skin at its nape.

Nikita sucked in the air desperately and arched into him. Her fingers fumbled blindly at a button on his shirt, but there was no time, no time to waste on such stupid matters. She tugged hard at the fabric, sending a shower of buttons dancing against her skin.

Michael hitched her up and then tossed her back onto the bed. When he looked down at her—her hair scattered like a halo, her arms waiting wide open at her sides—he knew for one exceptional moment what exactly it meant to be David Moorefield. He shucked off his shirt and pants and toppled down on top of Nikita. She laughed, the sound so provocative and inviting Michael could barely stand it.

As he lay on top of her, she could feel each of his muscles constrict. Her breath became ragged, needy even.

It wasn't losing control as long as it was her cover, right?

It was her cover, it was just her cover. He was just her cover. His body was just covering hers. His lips were covering hers. The words "my cover" repeated like a soundtrack behind the lustful thoughts hastening through Nikita's hormone-saturated mind.

Michael was so achingly close. There was only one piece of fabric keeping her from him, and she had never hated any one thing more in her life. His fingers hooked the hem of the offending garment and started to tortuously coax it down her legs. The addition of his determined fingers to the forbidden regions of her thighs was enough to make the Nikita beg for mercy.

"Jane," he mumbled into her collarbone as his lips trekked leisurely down her body.

"Michael!" she cried.

And both their eyes snapped open. He shot up from her like a jack-in-the-box, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, his eyes searching the room frantically. Nikita's breath arrested at once, and for a moment, she thought her heart had too. She had said his name—his real name. It wasn't her cover. Not at all. Not anymore.

They had let their passion overflow, had given in to their alternate personas. It wasn't David and Jane anymore, it was Michael and Nikita.

He climbed off of the bed and gathered his clothes, always keeping his back to her. "Michael, I'm sorry," she begged, sounding every bit as desperate as she felt.

"Don't be," he said, jamming one leg into his pants. "It's my fault. I crossed the line. I lost control. I won't ever do that to you again."

Nikita didn't know what to say. She wanted to tell him to cross it over and over again with reckless abandon. But then a sickening thought penetrated the most insecure recesses of her mind. It wasn't real for him; it was just his cover. For all she knew, he could have done the same with other agents. Michael—always in control, always untouchable.

"I'll sleep on the couch tonight," he added. "We fly home tomorrow at 11. Don't forget to set an alarm."

Once he was gone, Nikita allowed herself to cry. Not audibly of course, Michael couldn't know how his rejection had just broken her heart. She buried her face in the downy pillow until she could control her erratic breathing. Eventually, she soothed herself into a quiet conviction. Today was the last day she would ever be Jane.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Well, we've reached the final chapter. Enjoy!

**Chapter Ten**

**2011 – Banff**

After Oksana's escape, Nikita took a brisk run up through the woods, a wild, looping trail that would make it impossible for Division to find her in the dark if they bothered to pursue her. All the while, the glowing towers of Banff Springs loomed like a lighthouse in the distance offering her safe passage home. When she was finally sure she was secure, she made a phone call.

A half hour later, Nikita and Owen rendezvoused outside of the pool house. He was leaning in the shadows, one foot propped behind him against the wall like a Hoover-era FBI informant. The only thing wanting was the cherry of a lit cigarette to pierce the darkness ominously. "A little melodramatic, don't you think?" she suggested.

Owen shrugged as he emerged into the light, his gun tucked at his hip. "Nice to know a dive off a cliff doesn't even break your stride."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't have done it without your help. I'm glad you came, Owen," she conceded.

He made no attempt to conceal his boastful grin. "I knew I'd get you in the end."

"And it's because I'm so thankful that I'm going to ask for one more favor."

His grin slipped away immediately. "You want me to track Oksana."

"I wouldn't ask but—"

Owen put up one hand and pressed his lips together, looking over his shoulder into the pool room as a family splashed each other mercilessly. "You don't need to explain. I know you've got things to take care of. The one thing I've always been good at is not asking questions." He returned his gaze to her and said, "Say goodbye to Alex for me."

Nikita smiled. "I will, but she'll probably just celebrate."

"Seriously? Those are going to be your parting words to me?"

"Goodbye, Owen," she said, grabbing his biceps and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "And thank you."

"I'll call as soon as I find her."

Nikita nodded and watched as Owen jogged into the blackness, vanishing like the cleaner he'd been trained to be. It was all very implausible that she should be allies with the man who killed her fiancé, but necessity and revenge had a way of creating strange bedfellows. Sometimes the lines that divided some people brought others together.

She extracted her smart phone from her pocket again and found a message waiting in the shell program she had left running. "We're headed back to the U.S.," Alex had typed.

"Tonight?"

"Now. We leave in fifteen. Everyone's regained consciousness." There was a pause, and Nikita pictured Alex smiling smugly. "Mission was a total failure. Percy wants us back ASAP so we're taking some big wig's private jet back."

"He lost a black box. He's going to be on a rampage—watch yourself."

But it wasn't only Alex she was worried about. Michael had headed up the operation, and knowing him, he would accept 100% of the failure. Granted, the box was tightly encrypted with Birkhoff's own master level of security, but with enough time and determination, Gogol would have its victory. Nikita had put Michael in a tight spot. Hopefully, with Owen's help, she could rectify the situation and save Michael's future. She owed him that.

"Sorry I didn't get you that intel." Even though Nikita couldn't hear her voice, she could tell Alex felt the keen sting of failure.

"Division's always been need-to-know only. We'll fix this, don't worry. Owen's already gone after the box."

Alex didn't respond for a moment, and Nikita guessed she was probably rolling her eyes. "When are you coming back?"

Nikita stared at the words. Since Division was leaving, she was free to stay as long as she liked, but now what was the point. Tonight she would stay to strategize, decompress, reflect—and, if she had time, wallow for a minute or two. Tomorrow she would begin anew—she would be Nikita on a mission again.

"Tomorrow," she assured. "Leave me a voicemail when you land. Ditch the phone after that. I left a new one under the toaster display at our meeting spot."

"You can never have enough toasters," Alex replied.

They said their goodbyes, and Nikita signed off. She was now alone again in her world. She hiked back toward the entrance of the hotel in time to see Alex, followed by the agent who had been disguised as the waiter, get into a black town car and drive away. Twenty more minutes elapsed, and no one else followed, so she returned to the hotel through a side entrance, heading straight for the closest lounge. After the day she had, Nikita deserved something stiff to drink.

Without any preamble, she took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a shot of tequila, downing it the moment it came. Warmth spread throughout her chest, like little fingers creeping along her ribcage. It was simultaneously gross and welcomed. Nikita ordered another.

Had it only been two days since she started this mess? Funny how time sat on you like an elephant when all you wanted was to make it through the day unscathed. But it was almost over now. Her memories of 2005 seemed like a blip on the radar of her life—well, all but the one she could remember with excruciating sensory detail.

Somewhere in the bar, a pianist played a bluesy tune. Glasses clinked and voices whispered secrets that would never have come out but for the booze. A woman laughed in the gallery. Nikita kept her attention focused on the pool of syrupy liquid awaiting her in the shot glass. She downed that one too.

A waiter approached her on the right, and her body tensed reflexively—great, she had trust issues with waiters now. He put a tumbler of golden liquid beside her hand. "For you," he said. She looked at his face; she didn't recognize it. As far as she could tell, it wasn't a Division agent.

"From?" she asked warily.

"He said his name is David." The waiter pointed under an archway toward a chair that faced one of the many windows overlooking Bow Valley.

Nikita's heart stopped. She couldn't see the man in the high-back chair, just his hand resting on top of a glass of his own. Couldn't be, she thought. He had gone home, hadn't he?

She accepted the glass and sauntered over to the chair beside her philanthropist. She crossed her legs and stared out the window. They sat in companionable silence, sipping from their tumblers, watching the lights in the valley twinkle. "Where's the rest of your team?" Nikita asked offhandedly.

His mouth shrugged. "On their way to Calgary, I imagine."

At last, Nikita faced him, her eyes wide with worry. He was making a huge mistake, and for what? If he had planned to bring her in, he would have known he certainly couldn't do it by himself. "You're not going with them?" she continued incredulously. "Michael, you'll already be in enough trouble with Percy. You should go back."

"Not yet."

"Oksana would call you 'stubborn like bull.' "

Michael nodded in agreement. "You know as well as I do that Gogol won't be able to read what's inside the box just yet. Division will have it back before Gogol can decrypt any of the files."

"That may solve one problem, but what about the other one?"

Finally he turned to her. He rested his glass on the table and tilted his head to the side. "What other problem?"

"This one," she said, motioning between them. "Staying here will only make things worse. It'll make you look like you're in bed with me." Too late to take back the unfortunate choice of words. Damn you, Freud, she cursed inwardly.

Michael raised his characteristic eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twisting up just enough to convey his pleasure at her faux pas. "I'm not worried."

"I am," she admitted. He stared at her, his face lit with sincere surprise. "I pushed things too far, and I put you in serious danger. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

His gaze was serious. "Just like someone else here, I can take care of myself."

Nikita sighed, leaning back into the stiff back of the chair. "Why did you stay?"

"We have unresolved business."

Understatement of the century. "If you were planning on taking me back to Division, you should have brought back-up."

"I should have brought a whole army. That might not even be enough."

They shared a smile and then a drink in unison. Nikita emptied her glass and left it on the table, making a face. "What was that?"

"Straight Scotch. If you don't like it, then you pick the next drink."

She took up the challenge and signaled a waiter. "Two rum and Cokes."

Michael tipped his head to the side. "Playing it a little safe for Nikita, aren't you?" he baited.

Her response was a scowl. "Make it two bourbon and Cokes," she amended.

"Better."

While they waited for their second round, they shared another silence, but this one was stiffer than the first, more like the whiskey they'd just finished. Neither one knew where to steer the conversation now that their preliminary worries had been addressed. Much like the valley fanning out below them, insurmountable giants loomed ahead in the landscape of their minds.

When their drinks came, Michael was the first to break the ice. "You know, watching you jump off that cliff kind of felt like old times."

"Which old times? Like Rio or Monte Carlo?"

"I was thinking Manila."

Nikita's eyebrows raised as she searched her memory banks. "Yeah, parachuting off a skyscraper is definitely something I'd prefer not to do again." Michael gave one of his quiet laughs, the ones that had charmed her from her first days as a recruit. "Feels like old times right now," she added.

His smile faded somewhat, the remnants of it huddling at the corners of his mouth. "What happened six years ago?" he asked rhetorically and then swallowed a mouthful of his drink.

Nikita's breath slowed. Every doubt, every regret surged forth through her hastily healed wounds as powerfully as if they'd been rent open only yesterday. "I was young and naïve back then."

"So was I. I honestly thought that I could forget being with you." Michael stared at her, his eyes offering an apology for something she had already forgiven.

Nikita put down her glass and swiveled in her chair to face him directly. "We could always finish what we started here," she teased suggestively.

But then a flash of his old stubbornness clouded his features. "You want me to just forget who we are?"

"No," she said, her hand reaching out to touch his, "I want you to stay in spite of it. Everyone else is gone, Michael. We can be who we are, who we were supposed to be."

The flash dimmed, and he lightly squeezed her hand before releasing it. "What do you want me to say?"

"Besides the obvious?"

His jaw tightened. "Nikita, I can't leave Division now. There's too much left to protect."

"That's not what I meant." Her words were quiet but potent, and she could tell from his averted gaze that he read her intended meaning clearly.

"I know," he sighed.

"Then why are you even here? If you don't want to be with me but you don't want to leave, then what am I supposed to do? I can't sit in limbo for the rest of my life waiting for you to figure it out."

"I don't know," he admitted in a low snarl. She could see the turmoil swirling in his green eyes. "The only thing I'm sure about is that I can't get you out of my system. I see your face, and I doubt everything in my life. And then there's this part of me that just wants you to disappear so I can finally put you out of my mind, so I don't have to worry every time I run into you that Division will kill you in front of me. We're just so…"

"Complicated," she offered when he couldn't find the right word.

He nodded. "So where do we go now?"

"We were never good with the honest questions, only the calculated lies."

Michael leaned across the table, catching her face in his hand. He pulled her gently to him and placed his lips on hers. In the six years since their last kiss, this one had matured. It was chaste, wistful even. It wasn't hungry or searching—it was a promise.

"I will come back for you," he said, his mouth still on hers. "And when I do, I won't ever let you go." His hand tightened in her hair, and she could feel raw honesty throb between them. He left his heart on her lips.

Michael pulled back, finished his drink, and stood up. "Goodnight, Nikita," he said, buttoning his jacket.

"Goodnight, Michael." She offered him one last smile before he disappeared.

Nikita spent the next half hour in the same spot. Her glass was empty, but she didn't feel the need for another drink. She watched as lights began to wink out in the homes below, parents tucking children in and lovers settling in for an evening together. For the first time in her war against Division, she saw something more important that Percy with a bullet in his forehead—she saw a future for herself. At last, she rose from her chair.

With no worries of Division interfering anymore, Nikita unearthed her belongings from behind the ice machine and returned to her suite. Somehow the room seemed more inviting upon her homecoming, perhaps because the ghosts in the walls had found someone else to haunt for the time being.

She made herself a fire and relaxed on the couch in front of it, the heat permeating her clothes and massaging her skin like a salve. Nikita pictured a carousel, the one she and Michael had been riding since they first met, always stopping right back where they started. Michael's promises of their future were beautiful, but they were also indefinite. Someday he would let his guard down. Someday he would make her his. Someday.

In the meantime, she'd just have to answer that knock at the door.

**A/N**: Boy, life with Mikita can never be easy. Just a wee bit o' hope here. :) I also want to extend a heartfelt thanks for those of you that followed me the whole way through this monster. Judging by my consistent daily updates, I was obsessed. Seriously, for those of you who don't know me, I'm a little OOC myself right now. In eight days, I pumped out 48 single-spaced pages. That has never happened in my life. Why bother sharing this? Just so you know if I ever do decide to write a sequel, it probably won't happen in eight days. Consider yourselves warned.


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